


The Narrow Glade

by mabyn



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-30
Updated: 2014-05-30
Packaged: 2018-01-27 00:54:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 32,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1709033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mabyn/pseuds/mabyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Member of Parliament Lord Arthur has always championed the cause of the Druids, but after a sexual scandal destroys his career, he flees to Ealdor and finds himself more deeply embroiled in the Druids' struggle than ever. Their only hope is an elusive man who overturns everything Arthur thought he knew. Reincarnation, Modern AU, Dragons, Politics. See warnings. (Merlin/Arthur)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i didn't know i was lost

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by the [wonderful art](http://i.imgur.com/8UAHu1z.png) of birdsmustland. Arthur/Merlin is the main pairing here, but other relationships are briefly represented or alluded to. Thank you to my lovely betas.
> 
> Warnings and content notes: direct representation of unsafe sex, blood, prejudice & political persecution, child abduction, violence; reference to past incest, past canon deaths, homophobia, adoption

"You're the man of the hour," Owain murmured in Arthur's ear. He squeezed his arm a little too suggestively for comfort. "It won't be long before your picture will be on the front page of every newspaper in England and you'll be writing an autobiography." 

"Doubtful. I can't stand writing," Arthur said dryly as he disentangled himself from Owain's embrace. Even if the reception was merry with the tinkling of champagne glasses and the sound of laughter, it was still a formal event, a _political_ event, and as Owain so aptly pointed out, Arthur was the man of the hour after defeating the latest attack on religious freedom. Everyone would be watching him.

"Aw, come on. You won a major victory today, and I'll feel awfully ill-used if you don't drag me into the cloakroom and ravish me," Owain whispered.

Arthur ignored the heady effect Owain's words had on him. His views on Druidism were controversial enough without additional complications, and he agreed with his father it'd be best if speculation about his sexuality was kept to a minimum, at least until his budding career in the House of Commons solidified into something more secure. Still, Owain was difficult to resist, especially when he bit his bottom lip.

"You're pissed," Arthur answered under his breath and smiled across the room at Lady Whitehall. She'd already backed his position on Druidism in an interview with _The Guardian_ , and she'd be invaluable in the next election. 

"You're right. The cloakroom is too risky. We can try one of the maids' rooms upstairs." Owain's hand drifted down Arthur's back and paused dangerously close to his arse.

"I have no idea why I date a man so intent on destroying my career." Arthur smiled with fondness, but maneuvered out of Owain's reach just the same.

Owain pouted, but a trace of real hurt darkened his eyes. "It's not a crime to be _homosexual_ anymore, Arthur. Surely it's a contradiction of your precious politics to hide who you really are? Or maybe behind all those pretty speeches you're just as intolerant as your father."

Arthur frowned and glanced around the crowded room. He'd never be like his father; in spite of his privilege he knew what it was like to be scorned because of who he was. Still, this wasn't the first time they'd had this argument, and because he secretly thought there was some merit to what Owain said, it was one he generally lost. "Right then. I suppose no one will notice if I slip out for a minute." 

It was worth the risk to see Owain's coy smile and what it promised. After downing the rest of his champagne, Arthur admired Owain's lithe figure as he climbed the stairs, and when a suitably long period of time had elapsed Arthur followed him up. Together they tumbled into a dark room at the end of the hall. Owain loosened Arthur's tie and popped open the first few buttons. Arthur had drunk just enough to give himself permission to relax in Owain's more than capable hands, and he didn't resist when Owain propped him up against the dresser, tugged down his trousers, and dropped to his knees in front of him. 

Arthur, his fingers tangled in Owain's hair, had just let out a soft moan when the door burst open and cameras started flashing. By the time he realised what was happening, the damage had been done.

"You've been incredibly obliging, Lord Arthur," the man with the camera said and winked. "These photos will enliven tomorrow's paper, don't you agree?" 

*

The Duke slapped the newspaper onto the table next to Arthur's tea. "My own humiliation is beside the point. Goddammit, I know you're young, but I had no idea you were such a fool."

Arthur stared at the blown-up picture of himself on the front page. His head was thrown back in ecstasy and his clothing was dishevelled, and only the picture's being cropped at his waist saved it from being obscene. It was horrible and invasive and there was nothing Arthur could do to make it disappear. Arthur rubbed his stomach, where pain inflamed the strange mark, almost a scar, that he'd had since birth.

"The photograph is the least of our worries," his father continued. He clasped his hands behind his back and stalked over to the large bay windows overlooking the street. "Do you know anything about the expenses they say you're funneling into a personal account? I was shocked at the figure, but they have the evidence to back it up. You left a paper trail a mile long! And all to support this, this _lover_ of yours and who knows how many others!"

Arthur gaped in disbelief, but just below the headline, "Rising MP Proves All Work Makes Lord Arthur a Dull Boy," it was all there, exactly as his father had said. Words like _scandal_ , _plausible suspension_ , and _male lovers_ swam on the page. Combined with the photograph, Arthur did indeed look every inch the salacious child of wealth the newspaper painted him to be. He staggered to his feet.

"What happened with Owain at the reception — it was a mistake. But the rest — the money, the purchases, the men — someone is framing me. Don't you find it strange this should happen precisely when I've defeated the anti-Druid bill?"

The people of London may have become more tolerant of the Druid religion — besides the Druids themselves, no one seriously believed magic was real anymore — but a few powerful interests continued to seek legislation against them. The oppression of the Druids had a long history and they'd never quite been integrated into society, and some considered the Druids too wild, a potential threat to civil order whether they were magic or not. Even Arthur could admit privately that the few he'd met in person — aside from his nanny Finna, few lived in the urban centres — had been a little strange. Still, strangeness was not grounds for unequal treatment before the law, and Arthur had sworn to uphold the law for all people, not just the socially respectable. He'd read quite a few books on the matter, and together with his fond memories of Finna, who'd kept her Druidism secret, their cause had grown close to his heart. Not that his father understood.

"Perhaps you shouldn't have been so outspoken in your support of the those people and the other vulgar minorities you champion. It seems you've made a few opponents who aren't above sabotage." His father sighed. "And the fact remains you behaved scandalously at a political event. This isn't the first time I've needed to intervene because of your _indiscretions_." 

Arthur's blood heated at the reference. His so-called "indiscretion" had been nothing more than an "unsavory alliance" with one of the maid's daughters when he'd been only eighteen. Precious few people had liked Arthur for his own sake rather than for the benefits of his father's wealth and influence. Morgana was one of these, yet his father had been thrown into a rage at the mere sight of Arthur walking up to the house with her on his arm one afternoon. If their friendship had turned complicated after a drunken night — Arthur's last attempt to convince himself he wasn't attracted to men — his father couldn't have known. In any case, the girl had disappeared years ago, and aside from this recent slip-up with Owain, what other indiscretions had his father to be offended by? 

Besides, if the talk in the kitchens was anything to go by, his father had engaged in more than a few indiscrete liaisons himself. There were even rumours about a daughter Uther maintained in luxury in some distant villa — not that Arthur believed anything that outrageous.

His father was still lecturing when Arthur finally filed the troubled thoughts away and tuned back in.

"...our advisors think it'd be best if you resigned your seat and left London until things settle, and fortunately Bigsby has offered you a cottage in Scotland. You'll be quite forgotten in Ealdor, I assure you."

"But I don't _wish_ to be forgotten." He was making real progress. People who had once been subject to attacks in the night were sleeping untroubled, but it was a tenuous truce, liable to collapse at any moment. And what was more, despite his defense of the Druids, the idea of actually living in some unpopulated village well beyond the pale of civilisation, where people still believed in magic and dragons and all the wild tales Finna had told him as a boy, secretly terrified Arthur. He was, he'd been assured, a bright comet about to ascend to untold political heights. To throw it all away without even a fight, to yield to unknown enemies in the shadows, would be an act of cowardice.

"My dear son," the Duke said, placing an authoritative hand on Arthur's shoulder, "your wishes matter very little."


	2. yet still i followed

It was worse than he'd imagined.

Having arrived at night, he'd prayed the profound darkness blanketing Ealdor's streets would dissipate in the morning to reveal a quaint, if unsophisticated, Scottish village. This, Arthur thought as his eyes swept over the short road of five shops constituting the town's main thoroughfare, was not to be the case. 

"Edge of the world indeed," he muttered aloud.

In the distance the mountains rose up into the sky as if the gods had built a wall to enclose him here. In their shadow the town sat pitifully small, and he'd never been more aware of his own insignificance. A mouse scurried across the road and disappeared under a building, finding more escape than he could. He was off the map entirely. 

As he walked, Arthur nodded at a passing woman, probably a Druid. "Good morning," he ventured. She didn't smile back. 

Owain of course hadn't been able to endure the idea of it. He'd gone pale at the compromising photograph of them in the newspaper, then whiter still when he learned of Arthur's resignation and intention to move to Scotland until things calmed. After a few days of silence Owain carefully told Arthur _no thank you_ and _goodbye_. Arthur resisted the dull, angry ache in his gut and told himself he couldn't really blame Owain. Accustomed to high-class parties and cultivated people, Owain would wither like a flower without the sun in Ealdor, where there were only emptiness and blank faces.

His father was right about one thing: no one paid him any attention here. He'd received a few curious looks but no sign that anyone recognised him as Lord Arthur, the dissolute MP who'd been chased out of London. If anything, they regarded him with icy suspicion, an outsider they needed to hide their secrets from. He laughed bitterly to himself. How ironic he should be sent here to live among the Druids after his passionate defense of them had ruined his career, and endure their cold strangeness first hand. Arthur wondered how many generations back the villagers could count having been born in the town, and if he was the only newcomer in recent memory. He didn't belong here, and the people didn't hesitate to make that clear to him.

Like the man paused on the side of road, whose uncollared grey dog, skinny-legged and growling in warning at anyone passing too near, paced at his feet. If Arthur had spotted the man in London dressed properly, instead of like a street urchin with a flimsy hoodie out of which protruded dark overgrown curls, he might even think him attractive, reptilian eyes and all. Arthur wondered what the meaning was of the blue inked tattoos winding up from beneath the collar of his shirt, which traced the outline of his neck and twisted into a dense pattern circling one of his eyes, and what had compelled him to mark his skin that way. He'd never get ahead in the world like that. Maybe he didn't want to. 

The notion was a foreign one. This rough and untamed man was so different from Owain, whose carefully arranged auburn hair and neat, fashionable clothing declared him a worthy member of polite society. This man in contrast was someone Arthur could never introduce to his father. And yet he was, if Arthur was honest with himself, strangely beautiful. There was something about him that seemed almost ancient, and as he dwelt on that thought the ache in the birth defect that marred his stomach unwound and spread. 

Arthur must've been staring too long, because the man raised his head as if he'd sensed Arthur's invasive gaze. Unlike the other villagers, the man seemed to recognise him from the newspapers; he looked at him in open surprise, and for a confused moment Arthur imagined his eyes flashed yellow. Then the man abruptly turned on his heel, fled in the opposite direction, and escaped into a derelict shop with the old mutt trotting after him. The rotted door closed firmly behind them, leaving Arthur alone again on the empty street. 

Some compulsion compelled Arthur to follow. After all, he reassured himself, there was precious little to do in this town, and he might as well explore the shops. This one, though, with its dirt-blackened windows and peeling paint, was particularly foreboding, and only the sign proclaiming "Geoffrey's Books" gave him any indication of what he would find inside. Discarded pulp novels mixed in with musty volumes of superstitious Druidic books was the most likely inventory. 

Arthur paused at himself, for the dismissive thought could've been his father's, but then he shook off his discomfort. Supporting religious tolerance was one thing; taking the ideas of the Druids seriously was quite another.

The bells on the shop door clanged against the glass when he entered. It was indeed a bookshop, but inside it was altogether different from how it had appeared from the street. Soft yellow lights illuminated shelves neatly stacked with colourful books, and classical music played in the background. Beside a window, comfortable armchairs had been arranged for visitors to sit and peruse the volumes at leisure. In the front display were Druid titles, yes, but these were balanced with the latest books he would've expected to see in any respectable London bookstore. It was almost civilised.

"Morning," said the bookseller, an older man with glasses and a long white beard, before returning to his newspaper.

"Good morning," Arthur answered. He stepped further inside, finding himself much more at ease. 

The shop was much bigger than he'd thought, stretching so far back he couldn't see the end of it. There were few customers, and only the occasional rustle of pages gave him a clue where the strange man he'd seen on the street might be hiding. As if on a hunt, Arthur found himself wandering through the aisles in the direction of the sound, stopping occasionally to pick up a book and pretend to himself he was here to make a purchase. An almost unnatural energy guided him along and he wondered what the hell he was doing, but then he caught a glimpse of a tattooed hand reaching for a book and his curiosity was reignited. 

Arthur peered around the edge of a bookshelf. Up close the man was even more attractive than he'd appeared on the street, and older than his manner of dress would suggest. The grim determination focusing his sharp features revealed a certain kind of power, different from the strength Arthur was accustomed to seeing on the floor of the House of Commons, but impressive nonetheless and all the more striking in contrast to the hoodie and trainers he wore. Once again Arthur was drawn to his strange tattoos, and he saw now that the band circling his eye was composed of intertwining lines that formed a Celtic knot. The effect of the markings was as intimidating as if the man were a tribal priest. Arthur summoned his courage.

"Any good?" he asked, stepping out into the aisle.

The dog at the stranger's feet growled. With one hand restraining the mutt, the man stared at Arthur well beyond the limits of politeness and then, incredibly, he stole forward and fingered the material of Arthur's jacket as if to reassure himself Arthur wasn't a ghost. 

"It's really you," the man said, absent-mindedly touching the markings that ringed his eye.

So the man had recognised him from the papers after all, and judging by the misty look in his eyes, probably considered him a hero. He _had_ done a lot for these people, Arthur thought, but that didn't mean he didn't feel like a zoo creature to be examined like this. Still, the man's touch was almost familiar, and loneliness propelled him forward. 

"I'm Lord Arthur, but Arthur is fine," he said in a daze induced by the man's eyes. 

The man paled. "I have to go." 

Still clutching the book, the man darted away with his dog and left Arthur shaken by the intensity of his own reaction. The man's presence was replaced with a feeling of loss, and the ache in Arthur's stomach grew stronger. He'd never been so curious about someone so quickly. He had to know everything about this man: his name, where he lived, why he'd marked himself with those tattoos. 

"You know payment isn't necessary. Not for you," Arthur heard the bookseller say from the front of the shop. 

He hadn't left yet. Arthur hurried through the maze of shelves until the man's dark blue hoodie came into view again. The man was forcing a wad of crumpled notes into the bookseller's hand.

"Wait!" Arthur called out. "What's your name?"

The man ignored him and stumbled to the door. In his haste to leave, he fell against the broad chest of an attractive man entering the bookshop, who brought them both to balance, then grinned flirtatiously over at Arthur and tossed his head so his brown locks flashed in the light. 

From the window, Arthur watched helplessly as the mysterious man and his dog scurried away.

Arthur turned to the bookseller. "Pardon me, who was the man who just left?" He kept his voice low to avoid attracting the attention of the newcomer, who was now lingering near a book display in range of their conversation.

"Oh, but we don't like to say his name aloud around here," came the bookseller's cryptic reply, and apparently considering the topic closed, nodded at the book still in Arthur's hand. "Will you be purchasing that?"

Before Arthur could reply, the other man swaggered over. "Come now, Geoffrey. Don't be so mysterious." He smiled at Arthur. "That was old Merlin. He's a strange bloke who lives like a hermit in the woods outside of town, but the natives think because he has a few tattoos, he's some kind of wizard."

"Gwaine!" the bookseller protested. "You must respect the power he—"

"So superstitious," Gwaine said, ignoring him. "If you listened to everything the Druids here said, you'd also believe Merlin was their sole defense against a terrifying band of roving sorcerers who abduct—"

"The child snatchers are very real," the bookseller spat out.

"—and raise them to practice black magic. Honestly, have you ever heard anything more preposterous?" Gwaine seemed much more interested in inventorying Arthur's body from head to toe than he was in arguing the extent of Merlin's magical abilities.

"Freya's child has never been found!" The bookseller, red-faced now, pounded the desk.

"One kidnapping eight years ago and a whole mythology springs up to explain it. Maybe if they interrogated her ex-husband instead of worshipping the village freak, they might actually find the girl." Gwaine rolled his eyes at Arthur as if they shared a secret. "But who are _you_? Not another child snatcher, I hope?" 

"Hardly," Arthur said tersely, angling for a look out of the shop windows, but Merlin had long disappeared.

"You made up your mind about that book?" the bookseller interjected.

"Oh, erm, apologies." Arthur handed him a few pounds and hugged the book — _On Medieval Dragons: Their World and Extinction_ — to his chest. He'd plucked it from the shelves without even thinking, but it was a fitting choice. After his mother had died, his nurse Finna told him the stories that first drew him to the world of magic, stories in which dragons lived hidden in the remotest mountains until, having shifted to human form, they would steal out to wander among men. Arthur wondered if the villagers here believed such things, too.

"I'm Gwaine, and I'm probably the only sane person in the godforsaken place." The attractive man extended his hand, while the other came around Arthur's back, guiding him to the door. Arthur let himself be pulled along, eager now to escape the watching eye of the bookseller.

"I'm Arthur," he said, dropping the title that was so irrelevant here, and almost a barrier. "Pleased to meet you." 

Gwaine's hand was large and strong when he shook it. Indeed, he was the first normal person Arthur had come across, and after his confusing meeting with the man they called Merlin, it was reassuring to speak with someone he could understand. If Arthur hadn't been nursing an ache in his heart from Owain, Gwaine might even be tempting.

"Pendragon, right? I thought you might be, but didn't want to jinx my luck. Saw you in the papers."

"Don't believe any of that rot."

"I'm certain, but a picture's worth a thousand words, and the look on your face told me plenty." Gwaine's knowing smile melted into a forlorn pout. "Truth is, it's awful lonely out here for men like us."

Arthur raised an eyebrow, but resolved not to answer the implied question. "What are you doing in Ealdor anyway? You seem so different from everyone else."

"I was born here," Gwaine said proudly. "Came back after uni to take care of my mum. She's ill, but I don't mean to stay here forever. Strange place, though. Never realised how much so until I left. And you? Did your advisors send you up here to escape the Big Gay Scandal?"

"Mm. Smoke and mirrors. The real target is my support for Druidism." 

"Magic users, huh?" Gwaine shook his head. He was walking close enough to Arthur that their shoulders bumped. "Don't tell me you really believe that exists."

"Don't you?" Although he felt people should practise their religion freely, Arthur himself didn't believe in magic, but he kept that thought to himself. It would be insensitive to admit that publicly, especially in a place like this. 

"Tell me, Princess, have you ever actually _seen_ magic performed?"

"Don't call me Princess."

Gwaine smirked. "Truth is, people like to rally around the idea of it. But magic's a lot like the old man with a beard watching us from the clouds — just because it's someone's religion don't make it real. If you ask me, this proposal to ban Druidism is more political than supernatural. Doesn't take a degree from Oxford to figure that out."

"Well, any way you look at it, it's about freedom and respect, isn't it?"

"Maybe. I just don't understand why someone like you is so obsessed with saving us savages."

Arthur's face heated. "I don't think—"

Gwaine smiled. "Calm down, Princess. Don't think I'm blind to how freaked out you are to be living in a place like this. Can't say I much blame you. I'm itching to leave myself."

It wasn't the first time someone had tried to get under his skin, and Arthur wasn't going to let Gwaine succeed in making him admit how much he dreaded living here. Instead, he adopted his most winning campaign smile. "Actually I'm delighted to be in Ealdor. I think I have much to learn, and your guidance would of course be appreciated. It was a pleasure to meet you." Arthur, hoping to end the conversation there, stuck out his hand again.

Gwaine whistled. "You really can turn on the charm like a lightswitch, can't you? I'm impressed." He ignored Arthur's hand and patted his cheek instead. "See you around."

Arthur clasped the book to his chest as he watched Gwaine walk away. He was a rogue, no doubt, but trapped in the middle of nowhere, Arthur was going to need every friend he could get.

*

Another grey morning. 

Arthur dragged himself out of bed, brushed his teeth, and pulled on a warm jumper to shield himself from the chill of the Scottish air. The cottage owned by his father's friend was intended for temporary accommodation during travel rather than for a permanent residence, and as a result was well-maintained but rustic, with few modern amenities. At one time a shepherd or farmer must have inhabited it, but Arthur couldn't imagine how any family could crowd into the modest space, in which the entirety of the kitchen, sitting room, and bedroom could be surveyed in a single glance. The narrow windows kept out much of the sunlight, and the only source of comfort was a modest stone hearth that had weathered many damp winters. 

This was his home until his father summoned him back to London, and although Arthur was trying his hardest to make the best of things, it irked him that his only occupation was to write the memoir his father suggested in these dingy environs, rather than battle his opponents on the floor of the House of Commons. 

Frustrated by the confining walls of the cottage, Arthur decided to venture out to the town again in the hopes of meeting kindred spirits. He pushed out of his mind the memory of the strange tattooed man whose name the townspeople were too — frightened? — to say aloud. Merlin. By comparison the other bloke, Gwaine, seemed normal and friendly enough. Perhaps there were others. 

So inspired, Arthur tidied up and as quickly as possible fled the isolation of the cottage. It was only a few steps to the nearby centre of the town, and he once again found himself wandering the main street. Attracted by the noise of a crowd, he wandered over to the doorway of the local pub where what seemed like the entire population of the village were gathered for breakfast. 

It was a ragtag bunch: women in old flannels, men whose weatherbeaten skin showed the power of the mountain winds, children with wild hair. Here it was Arthur who was the strange one. He sighed and bought some food at the bar, then grabbed a newspaper to keep him company. He angled his way through the crowded pub to the only available table. 

Arthur stopped short when he spotted a hoodie draped over a chair and a grey mutt lying beneath it. When he glanced up, there was the tattooed man, on his way back from the loo.

"Pardon me, I thought this table was free, but I see it's not." 

The dog growled, quieting only when Merlin sat down and put a steadying hand on its neck. He whispered, _Aith, no_ and having settled the mutt, regarded Arthur with something between trepidation and excitement in his eyes. The look reminded Arthur of the sort he might have gotten from an old boyfriend, but he pushed the idea that Merlin might be interested in men out of his mind before it could take root. He wasn't his type, anyway.

"You can sit if you like." Merlin sounded nervous and returned to eating his food.

Arthur raised an eyebrow, but pushed aside his own discomfort and sank into the chair next to Merlin's. A woman at a nearby table turned and gaped as if he'd committed a sacrilege. He chalked up her reaction to the strange reverence the villagers seemed to have for Merlin. Arthur frowned. The villagers' admiration had paradoxically turned Merlin into an outsider; no one would even speak his name, much less chat with him over bangers and mash. He at least wasn't going to allow common superstition to dictate where he sat or with whom he spoke. 

Still, Merlin wasn't going to make this easy. He appeared to be thoroughly absorbed by his meal, pausing only now and then to feed a piece of food to the dog. Arthur watched him out of the corner of his eye. What on earth would compel a man to tattoo his face—but Arthur stopped himself. He'd worked hard to guarantee the religious freedom of the Druids, and he knew that although rarer now, in ancient times tattoos had been part of the culture. He wanted to ask Merlin about them but didn't dare. 

"Dreary day," Arthur said instead, by way of conversation. 

"Hm." Merlin sipped his tea.

Arthur tried another tack. "You were in the bookshop yesterday, weren't you?"

"Yes." 

"Nice place. Better selection than I'd expected."

"We do have some literate people here." Merlin's face was all innocence, but Arthur didn't miss the implied admonishment. 

"You seemed as if you were in a hurry."

"I was."

Merlin's aloofness piqued Arthur's curiosity and annoyed him in equal measure. "I'm Arthur, by the way. Moved here last month." He extended his hand. "I live off the main road, behind the bakery. Incredibly convenient — I can be anywhere I want in town in under five minutes. And yourself?"

Merlin pushed his lips into a sceptical pout, but placed his cool hand in Arthur's anyway. "Merlin. I live some distance out of the village, but not too far to walk."

"Alone?" Arthur blurted, then kicked himself for his gaffe. It wasn't proper to ask such a direct question when they barely knew each other. He must sound like a knob. He wasn't accustomed to being socially awkward, but something about Merlin made him nervous. 

"Pardon me?" Merlin looked startled, and the soft skin of his cheeks went rosy.

"I meant to say, surely you must have a companion—" Arthur stopped mid-sentence. He was only making it worse.

Merlin narrowed his eyes. "Companion? What do you mean by that? Has someone—"

"No, it's nothing, I… I'm sorry." Arthur winced, fearing he'd unearthed a secret. Merlin looked too young to have a family or spouse. A quick glance at Merlin's fingers reassured him no. A lover, then, maybe. He flushed hotly, and then burned more at his own reaction. He was being ridiculous imagining Merlin's romantic attachments as if they somehow mattered to him. 

The endless campaigns for office had taught Arthur to control his emotions, and he recovered his self-composure quickly. "It's just I live alone myself, and I've been much preoccupied with how to pass the time. One can get very lonely up here."

"Indeed." 

Tension prickled between them. Arthur coughed and fluffed his newspaper a little too vigorously. 

"Well, plenty of time for reading then."

Determined to ignore Merlin for the rest of the meal, Arthur shovelled a forkful of potatoes into his mouth and shook the paper open. He stared at the words without understanding a single damn thing. Every time he'd make sense of a sentence, his interest in Merlin would distract him again like a hound that would not leave him in peace. He flipped the page in irritation and a headline caught his eye. 

_New Bill Attacks Magic_

Arthur leaned in. According to the article, a bill that would outlaw magic had been proposed the same day he'd left London, and it had already achieved some popular support. He tightened his fists as he read the first-hand reports of people — good, solid English folk — who claimed they'd been the victims of magic. The complaints were ludicrous: an old man's garden had wilted, a child had seen a dead goat on the road. Druidism, the real target of the bill's attack, was never mentioned. 

"Bastards." 

He had to admire the tactical move — no one could argue religious freedom was at stake if only certain practises were outlawed, yet the bill would provide the police with all they needed to make Druid arrests. 

_The resignation of Lord Arthur is perceived by many to be a key element in the change in public opinion. With magic's foremost advocate silent, the passage of the bill seems inevitable._

Arthur's eyes narrowed with anger. Out here in the middle of nowhere, there was nothing he could do to remedy this wrong. Arthur glanced around at the people eating breakfast in the pub, unaware of how the changing tide of public opinion would affect them, and frowned. He'd failed them.

"Pardon me, ancient one," a hesitant voice said, breaking into Arthur's thoughts. He turned to find a young woman standing between him and Merlin. From the dark half-moons under her eyes, Arthur could tell she was exhausted, and judging by the worried look on Merlin's face, he apprehended the same. When his eyes flickered to Arthur in obvious disapproval of his eavesdropping, Arthur returned his attention to his breakfast, but he overheard the woman's next words just the same. 

"It's Ilisa. She's gone missing, I haven't seen her since yesterday. This isn't like her. She's always been a responsible girl and I'm worried the child snatchers—."

"Come now, Sefa, there's no reason to worry yet. I'm certain she just wandered off as children do. Round up some of the villagers and meet me at the post just outside of town. We'll find her." 

The confidence in Merlin's voice had the desired effect. The woman noticeably relaxed at the reassurance, and she grasped Merlin's hand in gratefulness. Arthur was surprised by the degree to which the villagers trusted a person who would be taken as a degenerate or worse in the eyes of Arthur's London acquaintances, and the smallest bit of admiration for Merlin wormed its way into Arthur's consciousness. 

"It's honourable that you wish to help her," Arthur began, choosing his words with care, after the woman had hurried from the pub. "You're something like a priest to them."

"Something like," Merlin said. He finished the last of his tea and ran his hand through the dog's fur. There was so much Arthur wanted to understand, but so little Merlin seemed willing to yield. The openness he'd displayed to the woman vanished behind a mask, reminding Arthur he was the outsider here. The feeling was unwelcome. 

"Why do they believe these stories about the child snatchers?"

"Why? Because they're real." Merlin leaned in so close Arthur caught the woodsy scent of his hair. "They're recruiting. Training children for the day when the war on magic begins. Let's both hope it doesn't get that far."

Arthur paled. He thought about the new anti-magic bill. "You can't honestly believe that. Why not contact the authorities, and let them find them girl?"

"Believe me, if there's nothing I can do to help her, the bloody constable won't be able to, either. Every life is numbered, Arthur, no one knows that better than I do."

Was Merlin really going to deal with this matter on his own? What a load of bunk. He couldn't be as foolish as all that. Arthur didn't believe for a minute there were evil sorcerers marauding about the village abducting innocent children, or that a civilian was equipped to handle the search for a missing girl. 

He pursed his lips together. "Forgive me, I hadn't realised you had police training."

"And I hadn't realised you're just as arrogant as ever," Merlin murmured to himself, pulling on his hoodie. The knowing smile playing about his lips irked Arthur beyond all measure. Arthur was beginning to realise that Merlin was not only delusional and possibly a charlatan, but also rude. Everything about Merlin — his manner, his attire, his wild markings — revealed they'd each been born into worlds that could never meet.

"I'm not certain what you mean by that." A girl's life was at stake — this was no time to joke about, or to play hero to frightened mothers. Still, for that same reason it compelled Arthur to put aside his own irritations. He gritted his teeth. "But I'm coming with you."

"What?"

"It's my duty to help. Tell me what to do."

"I appreciate your offer, but we can manage this, I promise you."

"If this involves the use of magic, you needn't be afraid, I would never—"

"It'd be much simpler if you didn't." 

Arthur was on the verge of an angry retort when a hand landed on his shoulder. 

"Hi there, Princess. Enjoying a meal with our Merlin?" 

Arthur turned to find Gwaine standing between them. He looked good, his hair as glossy as ever, face unshaven, a leather satchel slung across his chest like he was still a uni student. At last, someone normal in this town. Maybe he could reason with Merlin, if only for the sake of the missing child. Arthur clapped him on the shoulder in welcome.

"Gwaine. Good to see you again."

Gwaine gave him an amused grin. "You're not such a bad sight to look at, yourself." He slid his hand to the back of Arthur's neck and squeezed with a little too much familiarity.

As he did so, a bottle of whisky exploded on the shelves behind the bar, sending shards of glass everywhere and infusing the pub with the strong smell of oak and peat. They both jumped in surprise. Arthur angled his head to see what had caused it, but judging by the confused looks of the other patrons in the pub, no one else had any idea either.

"That'll be quite the mop-up, poor sods," Gwaine said, and then raised his eyebrow at Merlin. "I'd join you but I see you're quite engrossed."

"Not at all," Merlin said, rising and bundling on a threadbare coat, his lips pressed in a tight line. He glared at where Gwaine's hand still lingered on Arthur's neck. His hound circled his feet. "Please sit. I'm on my way out anyway." 

"Hey, but what about—" Arthur began, but his entreaty was useless. Merlin hurried from the pub off to search for the girl, no doubt, and he was going to do it alone. The door slammed shut behind him. If it hadn't been for the plate of half-eaten food he'd left behind, Arthur might have doubted he'd been there at all.

"Odd fellow, that one," Gwaine said as he sat down. "Do you know, he looks like he's barely aged a day since I was a boy."

Arthur raised an eyebrow. Gwaine seemed like the type prone to exaggeration, for Merlin looked hardly a day older than twenty and must have been a child himself when Gwaine was a teenager. In any case, Gwaine wouldn't be so calm when he understood the urgency of what was going on. "It seems a girl has gone missing. He's off to find her. Let's you and I go help."

Gwaine shook his head and absent-mindedly picked at the remains of Merlin's food. "No need, Arthur. Let Merlin humour his followers."

"What do you mean?"

"Look, children wander off around here all the time. And you know where they end up? Not in some sorcerer's hands, but playing at a friend's house, lost in the woods, hiding in the shop. Merlin always drags them out." 

"So there really is no one abducting village children?" 

"God, no." Gwaine laughed.

It sounded so mundane when Gwaine laughed it off like that. Arthur felt like a bit of an idiot. Still, something gnawed at him. "Does Merlin, you know, use magic to track them down? Do you think, I mean, is there any way Merlin could have been the one who caused that bottle…" Arthur raised his eyes to where the barkeeper was sopping up the spilled whisky with a rag.

"Nah," Gwaine scoffed. Their knees bumped together under the table. "Don't tell me the people here have already got you believing that bullocks?"

"'Course not. No. Strange thing for a bottle to explode, though." 

"Hm. Well, anyway, you and me, the only sane blokes in this whole mad village, we should get together sometime. Why do you hole up in that tiny cottage of yours when you could be out making merry with me? You like the great outdoors?" Gwaine asked. 

"I enjoy a good hunt every now and again," Arthur said. Gwaine's cheerful manner relaxed him.

"Of course you do. But our forests out here might be a bit wilder than you're used to, though I'm more than happy to be your guide. Weekend? Don't suppose you're over busy." Gwaine flashed a roguish smile.

"With what? Writing my memoir?" Arthur said. The truth was he feared going mad with boredom. Perhaps it was the utter lack of mental stimulation that had him half-believing magic was real. A hike with Gwaine might do him some good. He nodded. "That'd be brilliant. I'll look forward to it."

Gwaine drew a warm hand along Arthur's back. "I'm certain we'll have a great time."

*

"How are things in London?" Arthur asked, needing the first-hand report even if it came from his father. Living in Ealdor was like being buried alive, and every day another shovel of dirt was thrown onto his grave. He latched onto his father's analysis of the new anti-magic bill, plotting to himself how he would reverse it when he finally made his comeback to the House.

"You'll be interested to know the bill is gaining support. With you gone there's no one left who can persuade the public of the Druids' harmlessness." 

"You make it sound like you're enjoying my imprisonment here. If I didn't know better, I'd suspect you were a part of the plot to remove me," Arthur joked.

"Don't be foolish," his father said with seriousness. "I may not approve of your wild ideas, but I've always wanted the best for your career. You're my legacy, Arthur. Certain causes are attractive when we're young, but you'll learn. The Druids are not the victims here. They're a dangerous people who threaten everything we hold dear. Because of them, superstition and fear infest the population and all manner of atrocities are excused. I've no doubt someday you'll come to understand on which side your interests truly lie."

Experience had taught Arthur that when it came to the topic of Druidism, it was best not to argue with a man as stubborn and unyielding as his father, so he remained silent. They each knew well enough where the other stood. His father turned to an inventory of political gossip in a world Arthur no longer had a place in, and Arthur found that where he once might have clung to every detail, now his mind wandered to the day's hiking plans he'd made with Gwaine. He peered out the window at the sun beginning to sink in the sky and wondered what was taking Gwaine so long; he couldn't endure the idea of another lonely afternoon in his cottage. 

"... and Walker of course can't be trusted. He'll be expelled if he continues in this manner."

"Mm."

"And your manuscript, how's that coming?" his father asked.

Arthur glanced over to the unused laptop on his desk. Without even an Internet connection in the cottage, the computer was little more than a useless slab of metal. "Very well, thank you. I'm plotting an outline at the moment," he lied.

"Good. I expect you to stay productive," his father said. 

Arthur wanted to say he'd be significantly more productive in London, but he kept his mouth shut. "Yes, father."

"I'm glad to hear it. Just be careful not to start up any new rumours," his father said.

Arthur recoiled at the insinuation, but the appearance of Gwaine sauntering up the path lessened its sting. "I'm afraid I must be off. I've made an acquaintance and we've arranged a hike for the day." 

He endured the last of his father's lectures, closed his mobile with a groan, and yanked the door open before Gwaine had even knocked. 

"Someone's happy to see me," Gwaine said.

Arthur rolled his eyes, but found himself grinning when a short time later they were traipsing down the narrow path behind his cottage into the woods. Gwaine could be irreverent, but he had the effect of making Arthur feel relaxed around him, almost like they were mates already.

"Any news about the missing girl?" Arthur finally asked. With the weather so fine, it was difficult to imagine anything as ominous as child snatchers might exist.

"That brat Ilisa? Exactly as I'd told you. She was off hiding out in a barn with one of her mates. Said her mother was angry with her and didn't want to get punished. Not exactly the stuff of sorcery."

"Everyone in the village must be relieved." Arthur was more than a little relieved himself. He'd actually almost allowed himself to believe the wild tales had been true. If Merlin hadn't so stubbornly refused his help, Arthur would've made a fool of himself participating in the search, chasing after phantoms.

"The bloody people in the village should get their heads checked, if you ask me," Gwaine said.

"Do you really dislike them so?"

"Aw, they're not so bad when you get to know them, just superstitious is all. Terrified, too. They're running scared thanks to their obsession with the witch tribe — unwilling to even let their children out at night. Sad, really."

"So it would seem," Arthur said distractedly. Ealdor's inhabitants were curious. "What about Merlin? He's quite admired here."

"Indeed," said Gwaine, a knowing glint in his eye.

"A loner, though. Or perhaps I just haven't met his family, friends… maybe someone closer to him," Arthur stammered. He scratched his head to hide his discomfort. 

"I think I know what you're on about, and sure he's a pretty enough lad if you like the type, but I've never heard a word of him you know, being _with_ someone. Can't imagine it, truth be told. I think he prefers the company of his creatures. Never considered him myself, I like them big and strong." Gwaine eyed Arthur's chest. 

"Yes, well." Arthur coughed. He squinted his eyes and pretended to track a passing bird. They'd arrived at the edge of the forest, and the light dimmed as they dipped under a tree branch and found their footing on the darkened path. The silence between them grew.

"All right, shut up about Merlin and race me to that rock, the grey one with the odd point at the top." 

They ran. It was farther than Arthur had estimated, and by the time they reached the goal, exhilarated and panting against the rock's cold surface, the forest had swallowed them, leaving Arthur disoriented but happy to be on an adventure. He laughed. It was beautiful here with the old, high trees and the occasional glimpse of a falcon. Peaceful in a way it never was in London. Arthur dropped to his haunches and hung his head between his knees. He pressed a hand to his chest and relished the vigorous beating of his heart, and Arthur felt more alive than he had in years. Arthur wondered what Merlin was doing and if he lived nearby, if he ever ran through the woods like this.

Gwaine coughed with the effort of bringing his breathing back to normal. He smiled at Arthur and they both used their t-shirts to wipe the sweat from their faces. When they finally recovered they wandered a little ways to a brook and paused there, Gwaine twirling a flower between his teeth.

"So where to now?" Arthur asked.

"What's the rush?" Gwaine strode over to Arthur and backed him up against a tree. "We're both unattached, and there's no one about. Might as well take advantage of the moment."

Arthur paused. In another circumstance he might've let himself slip into bed with a man like Gwaine without a second thought, but perhaps his breakup with Owain was fresh enough to make him hesitate, in spite of how rarely he'd thought of him of late. Arthur's breath caught as Gwaine forced his leg between his own. Their bodies pressed against each other now, Gwaine's breath warmed his neck. When Gwaine angled his face up, Arthur opened his mouth and accepted the offered kiss as the inevitable culmination of their hike together. This was why he'd come, after all, wasn't it? This was why Gwaine had sought him out. Gwaine's fingers latched onto the collar of his coat and dragged him closer. 

No sooner had Gwaine's hands found his arse than Arthur's stomach tied itself into unpleasant knots. He remembered the way Merlin had glared at Gwaine when he'd touched Arthur's neck in the pub and his face heated. 

"Wait," Arthur managed to say, forcing his breathing to calm. 

"What's wrong?" asked Gwaine, still smiling. "We're just getting started."

Arthur stepped out of the embrace and moved away. He watched the crystal water of the stream slip over the rocks below in its insensible but relentless progress toward some faraway destination. "I'm sorry. It's just that I recently broke up with—"

"Ah." Gwaine held up his hands in surrender. "No need to say anything else. I understand completely."

"Appreciate that." Arthur scarcely trusted his excuse himself. He clasped his hands behind his back, then realising how daft he looked adopting his customary posture during political debates, shoved them into his pockets instead. "We should, I should—"

"Head back," Gwaine supplied, fingering his lips.

"Indeed. Only," Arthur glanced at the top of the trees, "I think I'll wander a bit more myself. Lot of things on my mind."

"Yeah, me too." Gwaine said, nodding. "Don't get lost out here, Princess."

Arthur smiled, for once relieved to hear the usually irritating nickname Gwaine had for him. "I'll be all right."

He thought he would be, too, but it was only after Gwaine had vanished in the trees that Arthur realised how far out they'd travelled. He was accustomed to finding his way back through winding streets after a late night carousing and prided himself on his superior directional sense. 

But that was the city. The city came alive at night; car lights twinkled like fireflies as you walked streets illuminated by the glow of streetlamps and building windows. In the forest, darkness stole in early. The heavy branches of the trees Arthur had thought so lovely in the day hid from him the last rays of the sun, and unaccustomed to navigating the immemorable trails of the woods, Arthur feared that in searching for the road back to the village, he was only entangling himself further. Not far off, a falcon screamed.

Arthur shivered as the darkness closed around him, and he regretted allowing Gwaine to leave, no matter how uncomfortable the kiss had been. The first rays of moonlight slipped between the trees to light his path for a moment before the moon was swallowed up again, turning the shadows even deeper than before. He could keep walking and risk going farther in the wrong direction, or he could stay put and wait for morning. Neither option appealed to him.

"Damn." Arthur kicked a tree stump. Another cry filled the air, different from the falcon, and even more ominous.

"What the—"

The noise sounded again, and this time it was distinctly human, if wild. The shout was joined by a chorus, and soon the woods were filled with an unearthly chanting.

Curiosity won out in the end. Arthur stole in the direction of the strange sounds, and from a hidden place behind some overgrown brush, he soon spied a group of people dancing around a fire. They were clad in only the most minimal of garments, and their bodies had been painted with dark designs. The paint was thickest on their faces, and Arthur could not identify who they might be, if they lived in the village or if they were strangers. 

In solemn contrast to the dancers, the leader stood unmoving in the center of the huddle with his arms raised above his head towards the sky. Although unpainted, a web of markings decorated his arms and torso, and for all the vulnerability of standing almost naked before so many, his eyes closed against any threats, the man appeared more powerful for daring to so expose himself. Arthur drank in the sight of his lean and muscular frame, and as he did so an uninvited desire took possession of him. The yearning unwound in his belly and drew him closer to the strange scene and the man who commanded it. His heart beat madly in his chest. He had to learn the man's identity. Darkness obscured his features, and Arthur squinted with the effort of trying to figure out who he was. 

Then the moon broke through the clouds and illuminated the harsh angles of the man's face, beautiful and fearsome at once. Arthur gasped. Unlike in the village where he appeared withdrawn, here Merlin, for it could be no one else, radiated a power and authority so strong it took hold of Arthur and almost compelled him to run out and join the crowd, to throw himself at Merlin's feet. The impulse frightened him. The entire strange display frightened him.

The chanting grew to a crescendo that echoed through the mountains and pulsed back through the camp. Merlin clenched his hands by his sides, and his face turned twisted in an ecstasy that was almost pain. When Merlin's skin began to glow, Arthur had to pinch himself to make sure he was awake.

It was the markings. Spiralling up around his waist and spreading across his back was what looked like a widening band of tattoos, patterned with diamond shapes that burst aflame with colour: red, orange, yellow, as if they were being lit by fire from within. The spark spread until Merlin looked only half human, a man being consumed by scaled flesh. 

The voices of the crowd stilled into a quiet hum of anticipation. Merlin, whose skin was now fully aflame, threw his arms out before him.

 _Ligfyr onbærne swiþe_

In response to his command, an impenetrable wall of fire exploded around the dancers. 

Arthur staggered back. The flames, red and gold like Merlin's skin, leapt so high they obscured the participants, and Arthur was cut off from what was happening. Smoke curled up into the night sky and permeated the air with the smell of burning grass. He would have thought it all illusion, but the heat warmed his skin in spite of the distance, and although he knew it impossible for a fire to flame from nothing, he couldn't doubt the evidence of his senses. Arthur clutched a tree for support and strained to locate the man who, he realised now, fascinated him as no one ever had before, but he could see nothing beyond the fiery barricade Merlin had impossibly called into being. 

Then just as quickly, the fire doused, disappearing as if it'd never been, and revealed Merlin's crumpled form lying on the ground with the glow of his tattoos fading like dying embers in a hearth. He looked like he was no longer alive. Arthur was half-certain he wasn't, but then Merlin's body shifted as if in pain, and the dancers crept closer.

Arthur fled.

*

_Lord Arthur, My Life in Words_

In the Internet café — if indeed the two computers squeezed into the rear of the village inn and linked to the world only through an agonisingly slow connection, could be called an Internet café — Arthur stared at his otherwise blank document and, giving up, went online instead to see the day's headlines. Writing a memoir was the worst kind of torture, and his father was punishing him very well by insisting he keep himself occupied like this. 

The news loading on his screen was just as he'd dreaded: the anti-magic bill had passed, and what was worse, his father had become a lead proponent. Arthur's blood boiled.

"The next bus isn't for a _week_? I told you we should've taken a car," complained a man with massive arms drinking tea a few tables away. 

"And where would the fun in that be? The adventure?" asked his partner. He folded his arms across his chest and leaned his chair back on its two legs.

"Christ, Elyan, I wish we were back in London." 

_Try being stuck here indefinitely_ , Arthur thought with grim humour. A flimsy sign on the wall reading _The Wayward Inn_ pointed upstairs. Arthur doubted these were proper lodgings, but perhaps Ealdor was more appealing to travellers than to disgraced MPs, the kind of obscure mountain village that, with scenic views and an atmosphere of rural isolation, attracted the occasional backpacker, and this establishment had grown accordingly. 

Arthur peered over at the bickering men, whose stylish clothing and accents revealed them to be southerners, maybe even recent uni grads enjoying a last romp around the country before settling into their careers. The kind of blokes Arthur was accustomed to calling friends before he'd been exiled to the mountains. Arthur hung on the sound of their voices and the illusion of normalcy, of home, they gave him.

Then Merlin stumbled in, and Arthur stopped thinking about the travellers.

He looked like a ghost. Merlin staggered to the till and supported his body against the display case while he ordered something from the owner. A thin sheen of sweat was visible on his brow, and for a moment he looked as though he might be ill. Arthur wanted to help, but he hesitated, nervous Merlin would find it an intrusion. The two travellers exchanged concerned looks, then rose from their seats and went to Merlin's side. Arthur couldn't make out what they were saying, but Merlin waved them away. Finally the men gave up and nodded, then disappeared back up the stairs to their rooms. 

Their exit left Arthur and Merlin the only patrons in the café. Burned into Arthur's memory from the night before was the sight of the glowing marks across Merlin's skin and the wall of flame he'd created out of thin air. Merlin had been radiant, but Arthur found him just as beautiful now in spite of his weakness. 

The truth settled over Arthur.

Merlin possessed magic, he finally admitted to himself. Magic was real. Druidism wasn't mere mysticism—the Druids commanded a power that could topple regimes. No wonder his father and those like him had fought so long to suppress it. Arthur shivered. 

It was a terrifying revelation, and he'd never have believed it if he hadn't witnessed it himself, the way he hadn't believed the tales the villagers told of the child snatchers. What else might be true that he'd long disregarded as superstition? Fear ripped through him, a fear he quickly extinguished, for whatever power Merlin had wielded was gone now. Indeed, Merlin slouched dangerously against the glass of the display case. Arthur couldn't bear to watch him like this. He knocked over his chair in his haste to get to his feet. 

"Do you need help?" 

Merlin looked surprised, but smiled when he recognised him. "No, no, I'm fine." He wiped the sweat from his brow.

"Let me take you home. You're ill."

"Just a little tired. Condition I have. Often this way — please don't worry about me. I wish… I wish you didn't have to see me like this at all." Merlin handed over a few notes and took the sandwich from the shopkeeper, nodding in thanks. He grimaced.

It was a strange thing to say, but then, Merlin was strange. Arthur couldn't help feel there was a piece to this puzzle he was missing. "Okay then, but if you change your mind, I'll—"

Merlin's eyelids fluttered, delicate in contrast with the angry twisted tattoos that marred his face, and it was only Arthur's quick reflexes that enabled him to catch Merlin before he slid to the floor. 

"You're really not well," Arthur said, the solid weight of Merlin in his arms natural and right despite the circumstances. He was heavier than he looked, wide across the shoulders with the taut muscles peculiar to skinny men. Arthur wondered what it would feel like to hold Merlin like this, chest to chest, when Merlin was strong enough to embrace Arthur back. Was it madness that made him want to tilt Merlin's face up to his and kiss him on those lovely red lips? Arthur shook his head as if by doing so he could free himself of the stupor Merlin put him in, and redoubled his efforts to keep Merlin upright.

"I should go," Merlin half-slurred as he braced himself on Arthur's chest and struggled to stand. 

Arthur reluctantly relinquished his hold. Last night Merlin had seemed so powerful he'd struck fear in Arthur's heart, but now he was weakened enough that Arthur felt it was his responsibility to keep this man from harm. But just because he wanted something didn't make it right, and he allowed Merlin to slip away from him. Merlin wasn't his to protect; he was a man Arthur barely knew and understood even less.

Merlin limped out the door and disappeared down the quiet street.

*

Arthur had been away from London so long he'd forgotten the chaos of traffic on busy streets, the smog that thickened the air. Another few weeks had passed almost without him realising it, and the silence that put him to sleep at night and greeted him in the morning, interrupted only by the occasional sound of a pig on one of the nearby farms, was no longer strange. He scratched his birthmark absent-mindedly and inhaled the clean mountain air. Not bad.

His stomach growled. There was no need to ransack the refrigerator; he knew what he'd uncover there. Ham he'd purchased last week and some leftover bread. That was one thing he hadn't gotten used to since arriving in Ealdor — the absence of the Pendragon family cook. He shrugged his coat on and headed out.

Gwaine was drinking a pint at the back table of the pub when he arrived, and they nodded at each other across the empty tables. The pub was nearly deserted at this hour. It was just after lunch, but too early for anything else. A boy with earbuds jammed into his ears was mopping away the remains from the last round of patrons, and the barkeeper was taking advantage of the downtime to linger over a late meal. An older man whose shoulders slumped in weary curves sipped a pint at the same table where he and Merlin, messy-haired with his mutt lying at his feet, had eaten breakfast together all those weeks ago. While the other villagers had warmed to Arthur in the time he'd lived in Ealdor, Merlin continued to avoid him, averting his eyes whenever Arthur caught him watching. 

Arthur didn't want to dwell on Merlin, not when he'd finally stopped daydreaming about him every moment. Instead, Arthur called the barkeep away from his meal, got a sandwich and a pint of his own, and slid into the seat beside Gwaine along the rear wall. 

"Shite weather."

"Another day in Ealdor, mate."

They sighed, toasted each other, and leaned back against the wall. A television propped up on the bar was playing the news, which as usual dwelt on the negative aspects of life in the region and featured a report of a nearby kidnapping, followed by an analysis of the failures of the local schools. On the screen a group of morose-looking students scribbled away at their desks.

"Poor buggers." Gwaine slurped his beer.

"Don't know how we survived it."

"Oh come now." Gwaine ribbed him with his elbow. "We all know you had it good at your fancy school."

"Can't say I was a model student, but the girls did love me."

"Did they now? How'd that work out for you?"

"I tried my best, such as it was."

"Mm. Broke a few hearts, eh?"

"Mostly it was obvious to them very fast, even if it wasn't to me. But there was this one girl, a close friend, I let it go too far. Totally selfish of me."

"Slept with her, did you? Thought that would cure you of your so-called 'perversions', did you?" Gwaine chuckled sympathetically. "Oh, mate, I was no better myself." 

The memory of Morgana's face the last time he'd seen her still nagged at his conscience. She'd smiled at him when they'd woken up in each other's arms, but Arthur felt only self-loathing at what he'd allowed to happen. He'd been too drunk, too hopeful that he could make it all go away, and she'd let him... hell. He was as bad as his father to exploit the affections of a girl without means. He wished he could be as easygoing as Gwaine and live life in the moment, leaving past wrongs behind him. Arthur turned the pint glass in his hand, inspecting the clear amber liquid as if it would yield him some wisdom. 

"Never saw her again after that."

The mood dampened, and they drank in silence, Gwaine staring at the telly, Arthur withdrawing into his own thoughts. Life was slow here. No meetings to run to, no speeches to give. Even writing his memoir was little more than busy work, something to keep him occupied until the scandal in London was forgotten. _You can publish it when you get back_ , his father had said. _Your side of the story, good for your campaign._ It all seemed so far away. 

Gwaine rose and maneouvered around the tables, pausing to joke with the lonely man as he made his way to the bar. Gwaine threw his head back in laughter. He wasn't such a bad bloke. He soon returned with another round and plunked a pint down in front of Arthur, then slid back into his chair without a word. Arthur took a sip even though the alcohol from the first had already relaxed his limbs, and he succumbed to the pleasant buzz in his head. His belly was full from the meal and his mind quieted. He'd done so many foolish things, but so had most people, and in comparison his missteps weren't so terrible. Just the follies of youth, nothing criminal. Perhaps he could make peace with the past. The voices on the telly blended with one another to form a quiet hum in the background, and Arthur allowed his eyes to close for a minute. 

Blurred shapes formed out of the darkness and solidified into an unfamiliar scene, but Arthur knew exactly where he was—the seaside cave in Wales his nanny Finna used to tell him stories about, where coloured crystals, each as big as his arm, hung from the ceiling like chandeliers in a great house. It was all just as he'd imagined it, down to the largest rock that glinted blue and purple illuminated by some power within. Arthur tried to identify the source of the light but couldn't. Outside there was a hum like ocean waves crashing on the rocks of the shore. 

He couldn't remember how he'd arrived here, or why, but there was something here he needed to figure out, Finna had said. His limbs felt heavy as if his trousers had been filled with water, and when he looked down at them he saw, impossibly, that they were. Arthur yanked a crystal from the cave ceiling and ripped a hole in the tough material, which gave way with a snap. The water poured from them over the floor of the cave and turned into a great flood that buoyed Arthur up. As he rose he caught the sudden movement of something dark flash across the wall. A lizard. Its tail snapped back and forth. Intrigued, Arthur swam along and followed it as it scurried away. The farther it moved, the larger it grew, until it was as big as Arthur, then twice, three times his size. Its tail lengthened and great wings sprouted from its back. Still Arthur followed. 

With a roar the lizard beast — a dragon, almost — blew fire at the covered mouth of the cave. The rock yielded, and a powerful wave rushed them forward, he and the dragon both, out of the cave and deep into the bottomless sea. 

When Arthur opened his eyes, Merlin was staring at him from the bar. 

Arthur jolted upright and glanced around him. Gwaine was still drinking his beer as if no time had passed, but the pub had begun to fill with patrons. He wondered how long he'd been asleep. The uncanniness of Merlin's sudden appearance unnerved him, but Arthur pretended not to see him and rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. His head was still spinning from the strange daydream. 

"Sorry. I dozed." 

"Saw that. You've worn yourself thin, all this mooning over Merlin," Gwaine said. His arms were folded over his chest as he watched the telly.

"I am not mooning over Merlin." Arthur sat upright and shook off his stupor. Even if he was nurturing some… lingering attraction that he'd been unable to shake off, Merlin was the last man he'd ever seriously consider. Merlin was a hermit. He still frightened Arthur, too, a little; the villagers worshipped him, perhaps rightly, after what Arthur had witnessed in the woods. 

Across the room, a man had approached Merlin and was urgently confiding something, gesturing in wide motions while Merlin nodded along in silence. Every once in awhile, Merlin's eyes would flicker over to Arthur and then glance away again. Perhaps he knew Arthur had seen him doing magic. 

Arthur touched his stomach. "That tattoo—you think it's strange too, don't you? I mean, even the Druids don't mark themselves like that anymore."

"I hardly notice it, seems almost a part of his face. Town legend is he branded himself with it when his true love left him, but the fact is Merlin never loved anyone but that old dog." Gwaine shrugged and returned his attention to the television. "You believe this rot?"

Arthur followed his gaze. On the screen a news reporter was interviewing an Oxford professor. The caption below him indicated he was an expert on the Druids, whatever that meant. Lately it had begun to irk Arthur that some people positioned themselves as authorities on how other people lived, as if the Druids were objects of study, and this man by his own standards qualified to discourse on them. Why couldn't they let the Druids speak for themselves? Arthur strained to hear over the growing noise in the pub.

_"They've been living in secluded villages for hundreds of years, in some places for even longer. These are people without modern education, without science, whose daily lives resemble those of wild animals, and yet they have enough power to bring the walls of the very government down."_

"Fear-mongering," Arthur scoffed. "What do they know of our lives here? Tell them to come up from their grand city homes if they're interested in the truth."

" _Our_ lives, eh, Arthur? You've gone native."

"Stuff it. This is just basic—"

Arthur's mouth snapped shut. The shot had cut out to a scene at a government office, and his father's face filled the screen. He was laughing affably at something the reported was saying.

 _"Indeed, but we're an enlightened people. In spite of what our opponents may say, this isn't about the Druids or any other group of British citizens. This is about the act of magic. An illegal act now, I should add, and rightly so, for no one should have to live in fear of what his neighbour or co-worker might do to him. I think we can all agree that such actions have no place in a civilised society."_

Gwaine threw one of Arthur's chips at the telly. "Aw, put on some footie, will you," he yelled to the barkeeper. "Enlightened indeed, preaching this nonsense."

The game was switched on, and Gwaine returned to his merry self, filching a few more chips from Arthur's plate in his enthusiasm while he alternately tore into Arsenal's shoddy playing and made lewd comments about the players' arses. 

"Speaking of blokes with gorgeous bums, you seen those new lads roaming around town?" Gwaine asked.

"You mean the tourists? I've started to wonder if they've taken up permanent residence." Days would pass by without any sign of the two out-of-towners, but just when Arthur would assume they'd finally tired of Ealdor and left, they'd return, lingering about the doorway of the inn.

"Wouldn't mind if they did. The shorter one's fit. The taller one… also fit. One for me, one for you, what do you say, mate?"

Arthur groaned. "Ugh, Gwaine, do you think of nothing else?"

"What?" Gwaine asked, in mock offense. "The nights are long. My bed is cold."

"Your poor mother."

"Sleeps like a stone."

"You're incorrigible."

"So I am." Gwaine pointed his glass over to the bar where Merlin was still standing. "But then, so are you."

*

Fair days dissolved into rain without warning in Ealdor. Arthur used to carry an umbrella with him whenever he left the house, but lately he'd adopted the local approach and braved the passing showers with a resigned smile. The mountains looked so beautiful bearing up through the mist that such fickle weather bothered him less and less.

It was just such a day when, overtaken by a deep-seated craving for spicy food, Arthur wandered farther afield than usual and cycled to a nearby town boasting an Indian takeaway. It had been a fine adventure, and he'd just stuffed a pack full with leftovers and begun to peddle his way home when the sky opened up and the rain poured down on him. He was sopping wet within seconds.

It would take him at least fifteen minutes to reach Ealdor. Up ahead a large oak tree rose from the sheep-grazed fields and spread its branches to the sky. Grateful, he pedalled to its welcoming trunk as fast as he could, hurled his bicycle onto the wet grass, and hurried beneath its sheltering leaves. He squeezed the excess water from his hair and relaxed against the tree. Thunder rumbled through the mountains.

The rush of the pouring rain was so loud Arthur could be forgiven for being unaware he wasn't alone until a running figure nearly bowled him over.

"What the—"

"Sorry!"

"Merlin?"

They were in each other’s arms for only a moment before they regained their bearings and jerked away with more force than was required. Merlin hunched over and braced himself against his thighs, gasping for breath, his cheeks flushed pink with exertion. Even sorcerers, it seemed, were subject to the whims of mother nature. The rain had soaked through his clothing, which clung to his body and revealed the outlines of his compact muscles. Through the thin material, the dark markings that branded his skin were faintly visible. 

"What are you doing out here?" Arthur asked when their mutual silence turned awkward.

Merlin wiped the rain from his face and sniffed. "A girl was sick. They wanted me."

“How is she now?”

“She’ll be okay.”

Of course the girl would be all right. Merlin had attended to her, which Arthur now understood was of greater value than the ministrations of any doctor. He took so little credit. The entire thing was foreign to Arthur; in his career, he’d been obliged to publicly highlight each of his achievements to ensure reelection — everyone did. There was simply no choice.

Merlin on the other hand treated his strength like it wasn’t his own, like it didn’t belong to him. Yet, Arthur thought as he watched him out of the corner of his eye, Merlin was almost vibrating with his power. It hummed beneath the surface and impressed itself upon observers without Merlin doing anything to reveal it. It wasn’t the kind of muscular strength that he or Gwaine boasted, but it was there just the same, one hundred times more imposing. Arthur indulged himself in the idea of what it would be like to be overtaken by that power and shivered.

"What about you?" Merlin looked at him with wide eyes outlined by wet lashes, and Arthur nearly forgot to respond.

"Needed some air. And some Indian food."

"And Gwaine?"

"Dunno. In the pub, I'd guess."

"Ah."

Arthur wasn't sure what else to say, so he reached into his pack, fished out a leftover samosa, and took a bite. The pungent aroma mixed in with the clean scent of wet grass and had Merlin sniffing the air.

“Want some?” Arthur held out the samosa in offer.

“Mm.” Merlin dipped his head and took a bite of the treat right from Arthur’s hand. “It’s good.”

Arthur popped the remainder into his mouth, and together they chewed in silence. They leaned against the trunk of the tree, shoulder to shoulder, watching the rain come down. Arthur couldn't imagine it ever letting up. Maybe he didn't want it to. The majesty of the mountains that had sent forth this storm awed him, and trapped by its downpour, he felt paradoxically liberated to enjoy a new groundedness in the land around him. A falcon soared through the air in the distance, circled lower, and screeched. Merlin raised his head to track its flight, but once the bird had perched itself in the branches of the tree above them, he returned his attention to Arthur, and he made little attempt to mask his scrutiny. 

"What? I know, I look a wreck," Arthur said. Merlin unnerved him like few others ever had.

"You're wet. Cold."

"I don't mind." Arthur had grown weary of the banal comforts of elegantly crafted desks he'd occupied in offices, and even his small cottage in Ealdor left him feeling like a retired bureaucrat. Subject to the rain like this, breathing in the unsullied air, returned vigour to his blood, and he longed for the exhilaration of the hunt, the vitality of the woods. "Reminds me of what it is to be alive." 

"I can't imagine you away from adventure for long." Merlin smiled with a knowing look in his eye. "You seem so different now. But the same, too."

"Now?" So Merlin had noticed how difficult the transition from London had been. "I'm not so judgemental as I was, if that's what you're getting at. Was I really such a prat when I arrived in Ealdor?"

"No, no, nothing like that," Merlin said hastily. His voice turned soft. "You're just very well regarded in London, but I know nothing more than what the papers tell me. What's life really like for you there? I mean, it'd help pass the time until the rain lets up, and I'm a good listener, or so people say."

As it turned out, Merlin was a good listener, and although Arthur began with his customary semi-fictional synopsis of his development from uni student to MP, on account of Merlin's unassuming questions and interested nods, Arthur found himself revealing bit by bit the strain of his relationship with his father, the inexplicable connection he felt to the Druid cause, the breakup with Owain.

"God, I've just been yammering on nonstop. You must think I'm awfully self-centered."

"No. I wanted to hear. I'd often wondered."

Arthur didn't ask why. Merlin was looking at him again in that strange way he had, as if he could see right into his soul. It almost frightened him, and it no longer surprised him why the villagers treated him like a sage. But in spite of all that, there was something down-to-earth about Merlin, like he didn't hold himself above everyone else but was just as mired in the muck and chaos of the world as Arthur. What it was, Arthur guessed as he inspected the unmasked pain in Merlin's eyes, was the obvious isolation Merlin suffered from.

They left off talking about weighty things after that. Arthur complained about the boredom of his life in Ealdor; Merlin strung together a history of the village with unassuming tales about the villagers. They both relaxed enough to joke first at their own expense, then finally at each other's. The mutual teasing came naturally, and Arthur enjoyed Merlin's gentle chastising whenever he took himself too seriously. He hadn't even known Merlin could smile, now he couldn't imagine Merlin without one.

"You're different than I thought you were," Arthur said with a new respect.

"So are you." The old hardness in Merlin's eyes dissolved into youthful crinkles.

"Let's make a run for it."

"In this storm?"

"We're soaked anyway." Arthur rushed into the pelting rain and twirled with his arms out and head thrown back to the sky. He laughed at his own jubilation and drew his bike onto the road. Merlin was still huddled under the tree, watching him with sceptical eyes. It was like being in uni again, when he and his mates would dare each other on wild revelries late at night. "I'm not going to wait for you all day. Hop on!"

Merlin waited a moment as if trying to decide if Arthur were serious, and then laughing, ran out to meet him. He scrambled onto the back of Arthur's bike, and Arthur brought Merlin's arms around his neck so he wouldn't fall. He liked the feeling of Merlin clinging to him, the press of Merlin against his back. Through the wet material of their clothes, Merlin felt so much closer, and he could feel his heart race. It must have been the euphoria of flying down the hill in the storm that excited him so, but Arthur wished he were the one who made Merlin's blood pound, just as Merlin was the one who made his own beat with a greater thunder than it ever had before.

*

Days passed with no sign of Merlin. 

Arthur didn't want to admit it to himself, but he'd walked the streets, had pints in the pub, written his memoir in the café — in short, he'd frequented every place in Ealdor where he'd ever seen Merlin in the hopes of laying eyes on him again. The more Arthur dwelt on Merlin, the more fascinating he thought him, strange markings and all, until something like an obsession took root in his heart. Arthur tried to blame it on his boredom and the lack of social outlets in Ealdor, and maybe that was part of the reason — must be _part_ of the reason, surely — but then he would remember Gwaine's advances that he'd rejected in the woods and his logic would crumble. 

Not everything had a rational explanation.

But as the weather worsened through the week and still there was no sign of Merlin, Arthur sunk into a gloom. He remembered how weak Merlin had been in the café weeks ago and grew worried, unable to shake the feeling Merlin was somewhere out there, sick and alone. When he'd casually mentioned his concern to the bookseller, Geoffrey had just nodded as if unsurprised and said, "Poor lad, he'll recover soon, of course." It had failed to reassure Arthur.

Finally Arthur could wait no longer, and he resolved to take it upon himself to make certain Merlin was okay. The rain had finally let up and restlessness had taken hold of his bones, enough to overcome his objections that if Merlin wanted to hide away from the world, it was none of Arthur's business to dig him up. 

The villagers nodded in greeting as he hurried down the road leading out of town, and before long, he spied the break in the trees Gwaine had said marked the narrow path to Merlin's cottage. Brushing a branch out of his way, Arthur wondered what might compel a man to take up residence in such an unfriendly, out of the way place, but no sooner had he asked himself the question than he knew the answer. Because Merlin was Merlin, and he didn't want anyone to peer too deeply into his life. 

Alone in the stillness of the woods, Arthur lost track of the time, and the farther he went, the less he believed he'd find Merlin. The forest had swallowed up the main road long ago, and still Merlin's cottage was nowhere in sight. He broke a fallen tree branch in half to make a walking stick and plodded on.

He began to suspect Gwaine had been playing a trick after all when he heard a low sound, almost human, coming from around the next bend. 

It could be Merlin, but then again, it could be anyone. Arthur's mind flew to the stories of the child snatchers, and after what he'd seen already of magic, the possibility of encountering such dark sorcerers seemed all too real. 

He crept closer to the sound, avoiding twigs on the forest floor, but froze when the rustle of leaves confirmed what he'd suspected. There was someone or something nearby. Arthur raised the walking stick in defense and braced himself. He might have to contend with a wild animal or worse.

Despite his fears, the person who finally emerged from the dense underbrush, half-covered in mud, was the one Arthur had been seeking all along.

"Merlin?" He was far happier than he'd any right to be.

"You're here," Merlin managed, just before he collapsed onto the ground.

"I am," Arthur agreed, as if by showing up he'd kept a promise, but Merlin was no longer conscious of his words. The forest was silent except for the sound of Merlin gasping for air, and with his forehead covered in sweat and an odd greenish-grey discoloration marring his skin, Merlin looked far worse even than when Arthur had seen him in the café — not just ill this time, but hurt. 

"Let's get you home, wherever that is," Arthur said more to reassure himself than to comfort Merlin, who was moaning incoherently on the ground. Arthur gathered him into his arms, and although with so much dead weight it was a struggle to stand back up, Arthur finally rose and shifted Merlin so his head would be supported more comfortably against his chest.

Arthur walked deeper down the forest path, and with each step he noted the rapidly disappearing daylight. He quickened his pace despite the burn in his legs and prayed the path would lead him to Merlin's cottage as Gwaine had said, for he didn't know how much longer he could carry Merlin. He was turning delirious and in his fever muttering unintelligible words. 

At last the trees parted to reveal a narrow glade, within which sat a small cottage. The vines twining around its white walls gave the impression the cottage had sprung up from the forest itself, and the overgrown brush nearly obscured the door. Arthur's heart twisted to think of Merlin living here all alone. 

"Hello?" Arthur called out. "Is anyone here?"

In answer, a falcon flew up from where it had been perched on a tree, and a host of small forest creatures scurried away in all directions. No one, then. Arthur kicked open the door and was nearly knocked off his feet by Merlin's frantic dog. He staggered around the mutt to deposit his precious load onto the sofa, and with Merlin safely laid out, he collapsed on the floor beside him. He took the opportunity to orient himself. 

Beneath the deep shade of the woods, the inside of the house received little light, but even so Arthur could make out long shelves of books and a small corner desk covered with papers. With plants of all types occupying every surface, the room was a forest of its own. A glass case mounted on the wall contained multicolored vials that shook with their liquid contents every time Arthur moved. 

"How did you know to find me?"

Arthur's attention snapped back to Merlin, who was rubbing his forehead and trying to sit up. He didn't look intimidating now, and not just because he was hurt. More than ever Arthur recognised the kindness in his eyes, a kindness nurtured by years of suffering. For it was plain Merlin had suffered not only mentally as he'd supposed but physically as well; Arthur now realised each tattoo hid a scar, but he couldn't guess the nature of the wound that had led Merlin to so disfigure his face. He was so very beautiful, so very different from any man Arthur had ever admired before. Arthur laughed at himself, for his tastes had really turned strange after all, but he pushed his feelings aside. Whether Merlin was attracted to men or not, he didn't seem like the kind of person who allowed others to get close to him.

Arthur reached for him anyway. 

He took Merlin's hand in his and was surprised when Merlin allowed it. They threaded their fingers together, and Arthur got lost in the strange spell Merlin always cast over him. 

"Dunno why I came," Arthur murmured. "What happened to you out there?"

"Just got weak, that's all. I told you, it's part of a condition I have."

"Looked like more than that. Looked like someone hurt you."

Merlin bit his lip and wouldn't say more, but his brow was knit in such obvious anxiety that Arthur couldn't help but want to protect him from whatever was doing this, whether it be an illness or something more. He stroked his thumb over Merlin's hand. There was so much he didn't understand, but he could stay the night and watch over Merlin, he could—

"You should go," Merlin said. "It'll be dark soon. This is normal for me. It'll pass."

"But—"

"Please." Merlin's face twisted in worry. He withdrew his hand from Arthur's. "It's best that I be alone."

Whatever Merlin might say, he needed help. Merlin wasn't accustomed to being taken care of, that was clear enough, but Arthur wouldn't be chased off so easily. 

"It's no imposition, I assure—"

He was interrupted by the sound of heavy footfalls upstairs. 

"Please, you must leave now." Merlin's voice went firm despite the obvious difficulty it cost him to speak. He looked frightened.

"There's someone here." Arthur rose to his feet. "Someone who wants to hurt you again."

"No. You don't understand."

"It's the child snatchers, isn't it? They're real. They're after you." The seriousness of the matter impressed itself on Arthur. If magic was real, then why not the local myths about the band of sorcerers who abducted children to fight for them? Arthur searched the room for something to defend them with, and seeing precious little, raised the poker for the fireplace as if it were a sword.

"Arthur, put that down. It's not what you think." Merlin held up his hand as if to hold Arthur back, but Arthur rushed by him, determined to protect him no matter the cost.

The bedroom door creaked open. 

Who emerged from the room stunned Arthur more than any dark wizard could have. Arthur lowered the poker. Standing before him was a young boy with dark hair who looked every bit as frightened as Arthur had felt a moment ago. Merlin lived alone, Arthur had been certain of it, and he had no relations. Arthur squinted his eyes to study the boy, but no matter how long he looked, he couldn't remember having seen those strange blue eyes in Ealdor before. 

"Get back inside," Merlin said. Arthur bristled at the icy authority with which he delivered the order, so different from the reassuring tone he adopted when speaking to the villagers. 

"Please don't be angry! I know you told me not to come out, but I heard voices." The child's hands curled into tight balls at his sides, and his eyes flicked to the bedroom he'd so recently been trapped in, as if dreading returning there.

"I'd no idea you had a son," Arthur said. 

Why had Merlin never breathed a word of this? Betrayal tensed his limbs. He was almost jealous, irrationally jealous of a life Merlin had begun without him and confused why Merlin had kept it a secret. No sooner had the thought surfaced than Arthur rebuked himself for his stupidity; Merlin owed him nothing, of course. His presence here was in fact the intrusion he'd feared it would be. They were barely acquaintances, nothing more. He staggered away from Merlin to the door. "I should go." 

"Wait. He's not my son." The ice had melted from Merlin's voice, and he was once again the weakened man Arthur had carried through the woods. The sudden shifts dizzied Arthur.

"Then whose is he?" 

Merlin looked at him with real fear in his eyes. "Arthur, please, I'd meant to explain it all a long time ago. Sit down for a moment, come back over here. Let me—"

"Where's his mother?"

"You have to understand what happened, it's just…" Merlin collapsed into a fit of coughing. 

Arthur's eyes narrowed. He wanted to believe it was the strain of Merlin's illness that prevented him from giving a straight answer, but although he'd been living in Ealdor for a long while now, he'd never seen this boy. Never even heard of him. No one in the town mentioned he existed. How long had the child been imprisoned out here in the secluded woods? 

Arthur let go of the doorknob. "What's going on here? You haven't, I mean, this is a legal arrangement, isn't it?" 

"Of course it's legal," Merlin spat out. "I went to every orphanage in the kingdom when I found out — I won't make the same mistake again. I won't turn my back on him." He was nearly raving. 

"Why haven't I seen him in town? Why isn't he in school?" 

"I can't let him leave this house. She'll find him. She'll take him from me." Merlin looked delirious. Maddened. Sweat coursed down his face, and his shirt was damp. The man Arthur had shared Indian food with under the tree in the storm seemed no more than a figure from a dream. 

"Who? Who will take him?"

Merlin wouldn't meet his eyes.

"Jesus." Arthur breathed. He racked his brains for an explanation why Merlin would keep a child hidden out here in the forest, but he could come up with none. The child was shaking in apparent dread of simply showing himself. 

Arthur climbed the stairs to where the boy was rooted to the floor and knelt down in front of him. The child's unearthly stare unsettled him. He was strange, whomever he belonged to. Arthur pulled out his mobile and as inconspicuously as he could manage snapped a photo.

"What's your name?"

The boy glanced over at Merlin as if seeking permission, but then grew bold. "Mordred."

"Where's your mother?" 

"I don't know." The boy's blue eyes watched him unflinchingly, almost as if he were the adult and Arthur the child. 

"Who's Merlin? Why are you here?"

"He's a sorcerer. He teaches me magic."

Dread unsettled Arthur's stomach. Something wasn't right here. Merlin was hiding something from him, and he wanted to know what. He'd find Gwaine. Gwaine would help him. They'd figure out the truth, whatever the truth was in this jumbled world in which he'd landed. Arthur knew what it was like to grow up motherless, to be a pawn in other people's affairs. He squeezed the child's hand. Merlin watched them with yellowed eyes. 

"I see," Arthur said. "Merlin is ill now. Can you stay here and look after him?"

The child nodded, solemn. 

"You're very brave. I'll be back soon, promise." He brushed a stray lock from the boy's forehead and descended back down to the front room, where Merlin was slumped on the sofa with patches of sweat darkening his shirt. It still vexed him to see Merlin this way. "I'm going to fetch a doctor to come here."

"You mustn't."

"I don't think you realise how much you need one."

Merlin tracked him with hard eyes. For all the weakness of his body, a power still emanated from him. "Don't. I can't allow you to. Come back in a few days, when I'm stronger." 

Arthur nodded once and frowned. He gave a last look at the inhabitants and their dark surroundings and hurried out the door, determined to make it back to town before nightfall.


	3. i fell apart

The fading light coloured the trees a dark green as Arthur made his way back up the path, and the evening wind chilled his skin. Behind him, the forest engulfed Merlin's cottage and hid the haunted child from the world. 

The bookshop, the pub, the streets of town: Merlin had been everywhere trailed by his hound, but Arthur had never glimpsed the child. Who was he that Merlin should keep him like this? Arthur increased his pace. He needed to find Gwaine. A reassuring, familiar face. A friend, still, he hoped. He was a happy-go-lucky lout and probably the only person Arthur knew who didn't have a secret agenda, unless he considered getting laid an agenda, and in any case there'd been nothing secret about it. Arthur smiled to himself. Maybe Gwaine could help him figure out what to do about Merlin. Perhaps there was still a rational explanation, but Merlin had been too delirious to give it. He clung to the idea. 

The darkness of the forest dissolved into the wide expanse of country road, and up ahead, the familiar outline of the pub appeared at the edge of town. Arthur heard the sounds of life, too: the low hum of vehicles, the shouts of human voices. Compared with what he'd seen today, it was all so reassuringly normal.

Until it wasn't. The voices took on an urgent note the closer he approached and his heart filled with a sense of foreboding.

_"Where are you taking him?"_

_"The newspapers will hear about this!"_

A police van was parked in the middle of the road, and officers wearing riot gear were crowding a small group of people into the back. One of the prisoners scanned the crowd in fear, another was slumped over as if wounded in the melee. Arthur recognised a few of the distraught faces. Just earlier that morning they'd been walking about the town buying produce and joking with their neighbours, and now they were being forcibly taken from their home. Gillian. Kirk. Effie. The idea that they might be threats to the peace was absurd. This was exactly the kind of stunt that would fuel radicals.

"I'm Lord Arthur. What's going on here?" he asked one of the officers.

"Just following orders, my Lord. These folks are being taken in for questioning. You got a problem, contact the higher ups."

Arthur didn't need to contact the officer's superiors to suspect the truth. It was happening already. Barely a week had passed since the anti-magic bill had become law. He ran a hand through his hair. What good was he doing out here?

He spotted Gwaine, who was shouting with the rest of the crowd and pumping his fist in the air with an angry enthusiasm. Two men wearing worried expressions trailed right behind him. The travellers from the café. Arthur hurried over to them.

"Bloody government, they've been waiting for an opportunity like this for years!" Gwaine shouted when Arthur had made his way over. "Sorry, no offense intended, princess."

"None taken. What's being done to help them?"

"What's being done? Why, you're watching it. What else do we have?" Gwaine hurled a few more angry invectives at the police.

Maybe Gwaine was right. If the Druids being marshalled into the police van were accused of doing magic, the police were well within their rights to arrest them. What mattered now was bringing the new law's darker consequences to the attention of the British people, who must be made to realise the damage the law was causing.

"Contact your representatives. Call the papers. Let the world know what's happening."

Gwaine scoffed. "The world doesn't give a shit what's happening. This is what's legal now."

Arthur didn't want to believe that, but faced with the scene unfolding before their eyes, it was difficult to argue.

"Maybe we can help." The tourist with the huge muscles stepped forward, towering over Arthur.

"Met these lads at the pub." Gwaine jerked his head at them. "I thought I was in for the night of my life, but then the Crown showed up."

"I'm Elyan, and this is Percy," the other man said, placing a calming hand on Gwaine's shoulder. "I'm a barrister in London, and Percy's father owns Albion Enterprises. We have a few connections who might be able to put pressure on the right people. And you, you're—"

"Lord Arthur, yes."

"Pleasure to meet you. We thought so when we ran into you at the inn, but it seemed so impossible you would be here… Not everyone in London believes what they read in the papers, you know. The Druids could use some help, and there's no one else who has more influence with the people." 

Percy nodded. "We're heading back tomorrow. You should come with us."

"That'd be brilliant," Gwaine said, gripping Arthur's arm. "We could both go. My mother's doing better, and between the four of us—"

"I wish I could," Arthur said, not entirely certain he did wish he could return to London anymore. "But I'm afraid with my reputation being what it is, I'd do more harm than good." 

"If you change your mind, give me a call." Percy slipped a business card into Arthur's hand. 

"Thanks." Arthur pocketed the card and nodded. Before he could go, one thing remained for him to find out. He grabbed Gwaine by the arm and dragged him a few feet away. "I need to talk to you alone."

"What's going on?" The evening's events had turned Gwaine serious for once.

"What do you know about the child who lives with Merlin?"

Gwaine narrowed his eyes. "What child?"

"Was afraid you'd say that. I snapped a photo. Do you recognise him at all? Ever seen him around town?" 

Gwaine studied Arthur's mobile and shook his head. "Never. You're certain he lives with Merlin? Not just a visitor?"

"Seems so." Arthur took his mobile back and gazed at the image of the boy, who seemed to be almost imploring him for help. 

"Strange I've never heard a word of him. Everyone in Ealdor knows everyone else, and you know how people like to gossip. I've always thought of Merlin as a bit of an eccentric, but this really takes the cake. How do you know all this?"

Without mentioning how he'd found Merlin wounded in the forest, Arthur ran through the events of the afternoon, telling Gwaine how the child had been afraid to show himself, how he'd revealed Merlin was raising him to teach him magic, and how strangely Merlin had acted when Arthur asked about his parents. Now that he explained it out loud, the whole situation sounded increasingly disturbing, and by the way Gwaine was worrying his beard, he thought so too. Still, Arthur didn't want to jump to any conclusions. 

"But Merlin must have a good reason for hiding him, right?" Arthur hoped Gwaine would reassure him. Neither had said the obvious: that Merlin might be involved in something dark, and the boy might be in trouble.

"Of course." Gwaine rubbed his chin and stared at his shoes. "But maybe you should talk to some of the town elders just in case. Or maybe the authorities." 

The police closed the doors of the van on the last of the prisoners and set about dispersing the angry crowd. Their sticks were raised in warning. 

"These authorities?" Arthur asked. He could only imagine what they might do to someone like Merlin.

"Shit, I wish I knew. The truth is Merlin keeps to himself. The people here love him, but ask them where he came from or what he does out in that forest, no one would be able to tell you. To be hiding some child in that cottage of his, I just don't know." Gwaine turned back to where Percy and Elyan waited. "Think it over. I'm here to help you, whatever you decide."

Exhaustion hit Arthur. He was past deciding anything. "I'm going to sleep on it. Maybe this will all make sense in the morning, eh?" He smiled weakly.

Gwaine nodded and slapped him once on the back.

Arthur didn't know what he'd done to win Gwaine's loyalty, but he was grateful. He wished he knew who else he could trust. The strange way Merlin had acted, the reluctance of the boy to show himself to Arthur. No sooner had he grown comfortable in Ealdor than its peaceful surface had been disturbed like a pond upset by a stone. The world was turning out to be far more complicated than he'd ever dreamed, and while there was no one who could help him navigate its waters, the stakes were higher than they'd ever been. An entire people were being rounded up from their beds, taken to God knew where. Maybe Gwaine was right and the world didn't care, but Arthur had to try even if he had very little to offer. 

The sound of shouting faded as Arthur turned down the road to his cottage. Arthur knew who he needed to speak with, and as soon as he locked the door behind him, he turned on his mobile. It would be a start.

"Leon."

"Arthur, Christ, why the hell haven't you called? I've been trying to track you down for weeks! Is this a new number?"

"I'm sorry, I've been meaning to get in touch, but my father thought it best if I kept a low profile after everything."

"Your father — Jesus, Arthur. There's something I need to tell you."

Arthur waited. Leon rarely had anything good to report.

"There's been talk around the newsroom. Folks here are saying the Duke had a hand in what happened to you."

"That's absurd."

"I thought the same, at first. But I did some digging and Arthur, you're not going to like this, I found something."

Arthur's blood rushed from his head, dizzying him. "What?" he finally managed to croak out.

"Another journalist, I forced him to show me the letters. They were orders, and an offer of payment. I'm sorry."

"It's not possible." Arthur gripped the desk for support. He would not believe this of his father. He was a harsh man, sometimes ruthless, but not dishonourable. 

"I'm sorry, I—"

"Christ, Leon, I can't think about — look, they're making arrests here. Picking people right off the streets, nobodies. What the hell is going on?"

"Druids? Yeah, I've been hearing reports. The roundups have been confined to the outer regions, nothing in London so far. They're testing the waters. There've been a few articles buried in the papers, but no one seems to notice."

"And it'll grow from there until what? Anyone who dares speak out will be locked up, too."

"Magic is illegal now."

"Can you do anything? Find someone with an irreproachable reputation who's been arrested. Maybe a trail of corruption. Someone's pulling the strings."

"I'll see what I can dredge up."

"Thanks, Leon."

"You're still loved around here, you know. People are talking. Not everyone believes you should've been chased out of London."

"That right?" 

"Hey, you learned what you could from your father. Get your own advisors. It's time."

"Maybe it is."

After they'd said goodbye Arthur lowered himself into a chair and rested his head in his hands. The shouting in the streets had died down and it was as silent outside as if nothing had ever happened. Night was settling on the town.

There was someone at the door. Arthur squinted at it as if by doing so he could see who was on the other side. He wasn't expecting anyone. Didn't want to see anyone. Unless maybe, Merlin. He kicked himself for even thinking it and undid the latch. 

"Please." 

The word had scarcely slipped from the woman's mouth before she threw herself into his arms. Her nails scraped the skin of his neck as she clung to him, and when he tried to right her she only sagged deeper into his embrace. He peered into the road but there was no one around to help. In the gathering darkness her hair appeared so black it shone almost purple, its strands entrapping leaves and thin branches, making her seem more of the forest than the civilised world. He could only guess why she was in such a desperate state.

"Are you running from them?" He murmured near the woman's ear to muffle the sound of his voice. He must get her inside, whoever she was. "Are you a Druid?"

"Druid?" She raised her face up to his in confusion. Her eyes were the palest blue, and even though her skin was encrusted with dirt, her beauty was plain. He'd held her before, just like this, only her mouth had been teasing then, and he'd been desperate enough, or drunk enough, to let her drag him down. "Have I really changed so much you don't recognise me?"

His mouth parched. "'Course I do. Morgana." 

Arthur locked the door and guided her to the sofa, which she sank into with a weary sigh. He went about putting on the kettle and discovered he was shaking. Merlin, the child, the arrests in the streets, what Leon had revealed of his father — and now this. Her. It had only been one night, the kind of thing most young people did without a second thought, but Arthur had never been able to shake off his uneasiness about it. His guilt. They'd been friends.

"Can I find you something to eat?"

She shook her head. She was older now, but just as vulnerable as she'd been when he first saw her. What could've compelled her to seek him out after all these years, and in so desolate a place? He wanted to sit at her feet and beg her forgiveness, wipe away the stains of the past and find solace again at her side. If he'd taken advantage of her, it hadn't been out of cruelty, but out of fear. He'd liked her. She was smart and funny with an iridescent laugh, never afraid to tease him for what she chided was his arrogance. He'd never met anyone that honest before.

"I can find you lodgings, if they're needed. One of the women in town. You should rest." 

"I do need your help, Arthur, but with something much bigger, something of the highest importance to both of us." She wrapped her hands around the tea cup he passed her.

"Are you in trouble?"

"I've no shortage of money, if that's what you think." She ignored his implied offer as if it offended, and her face turned imploring. "We've both lost so much, and you something you didn't even know you had."

Arthur couldn't guess at what she might mean, but her pain was evident. Although he wanted to go to the sofa and comfort her, he worried he might give the wrong impression and instead waited in silence where he stood, his arms folded carefully across his chest. 

"I've suffered so much in these past years I hardly recognise myself. I'm no longer pretty as I once was. We were both so young, and maybe we didn't understand what we were doing. What the consequences might be." Misery darkened her face. "We weren't careful."

Arthur paled. She could not be saying what he thought she was saying. 

"What do you mean?"

"What we started that night didn't end there. Arthur, I had a child." 

He couldn't speak. He walked over to the window and gazed into the darkness, but all he could see was the shadow of his own reflection. Nearly eight years had passed. Would it resemble him? What combination of her dark hair and his light would it have? Everything he'd missed. She joined him at the window and wound her fingers about his arm. He shuddered at the touch but allowed himself to be turned toward her, and when he saw the tears in her eyes he couldn't be angry. Whatever had happened, the burden wasn't hers to bear alone. 

"You should've told me." 

"I wanted to, but he made me promise not to. He threatened me." 

"Who?" Arthur dreaded the answer. She could only be speaking of one person. If she too had been wronged on account of Arthur, he'd do everything in his power to put it to right.

"Our father."

"You mean, my father?"

"No. I mean _our_ father."

"What?" He laughed in nervous shock. The light caught in her eyes, and for a crazy moment he imagined they were Uther's staring back at him, but then it passed. She was distressed and was almost certainly confused. "You know me, don't you? I'm Arthur, the Duke's only son, and your old friend. Where is your family now? Let me help take you back to them."

Morgana broke away and lowered herself shakily to a chair at his small table. "It's true I never told you much about my family. I grew up not far away from you, but it might have been a different world entirely. I was ashamed of my parentage then." Her cheek was pale, and she raised the cup shakily to her lips. "I never knew my father. My mother was a domestic servant, she raised me by herself. She was silent as the grave, and it was only because I went to see Uther after all that happened that I learned the truth. Has he really never told you?" 

Arthur stared, uncomprehending. She couldn't be suggesting— Then the pieces began to fall into place. Her wild appearance, her frantic distress. Sane women did not roam around distant villages at night seeking out past lovers. Perhaps her other story about the child was also a fantasy. The thought calmed him. He didn't know what he'd been expecting — his past rising from out of nowhere to haunt him, another blow after he'd survived his scandal in London — but this was nothing of the sort. He'd made a youthful mistake with his friend, who it was plain to see, was not in her right mind, and had come to be consoled. He would do that, and then he'd find someone in the town, a woman perhaps, to help her.

"You don't believe me." She had begun to cry. "You think because I look like this, because I was nothing more than the daughter of a servant, that I'm not worthy enough to be your sister."

"It's not that, it's—"

"You're exactly the same as he is, aren't you? I should've known all those years ago, when you woke up after we'd been together, and you looked at me with such distaste..."

"You don't understand. Please—"

"I do understand." She wiped her eyes. "You're a Pendragon and I'm no one. My word means nothing to you." She dug around in the pockets of the weathered coat she wore and pulled out some papers, which she cast upon the table. "Then see for yourself. He gave me this when I told him I was having your child."

Arthur recoiled. 

"They're the deeds to an estate," she said, nodding to them, "on the condition that I'd give up my child and never seek you out again or tell anyone the truth. He wanted to shut me up." She looked down. "He sent men — thugs — to make sure I listened. The carrot and the stick both. When, later, I found out I was his daughter, I suddenly understood why he went to such extremes."

Arthur stared. He could not — _would_ not — believe this. He sank into the chair across from her and examined the papers. Indeed, they were as she had said: official deeds, signed in his father's hand, of the large property he remembered from childhood holidays but which had been given up around the same time as Morgana had disappeared. 

Beneath the deed was a birth certificate of a Mordred Pendragon, mother, Morgana Pendragon, father, unknown, date eight years ago, and after that, the relinquishment paperwork she'd filled out when she gave the child up. 

Though he shrunk from every aspect of her wild tale, Arthur didn't know how to dispute the evidence. He remembered the rumours about a daughter that the servants in the house used to whisper. Except to be irritated at the malicious gossip, he'd never given them more than a moment's attention. 

"Before she died, my mother gave me this." Morgana opened her palm out to him. "It's Uther's ring, given to her when they were still enamoured of each other. There's a tale associated with it, isn't there? When they were still engaged to be married, Uther's mother threw the ring from her window one night during an argument. It fell into a sewer, and she believed it was lost forever until the following night a falcon came to her window with the ring was in its beak. It convinced her it was fate to marry Uther's father. Ridiculous story, probably made up." Morgana laughed. "My mother said the ring was worth a fortune, and it is. But not in the way she imagined."

Arthur turned the ring over in his hand. It bore his father's crest and had been inlaid with exquisite jewels, far more expensive than someone like Morgana could have afforded. He'd heard the same story straight from his father's lips. The air felt thick when he tried to breathe. If all she'd said was true, this was just one out of many crimes his father had committed against him. 

"I'm only coming to you now because I've discovered the man who got hold of my son, _our_ son, is raising him in isolation and," she lowered her voice, "in the practice of magic. I should never have given him up, I was so innocent then, but I want my son back now. Surely you must understand that? I'm not asking for your help afterwards, I've no interest in you supporting us, but you have influence and strength where I have neither, and that _animal_ ," she sneered with hatred, "has his claws in deep, and he won't let me near, he uses his powers against me, he's poured his lies into the ears of these gossiping villagers, and they believe—"

"The child snatcher," Arthur said in disbelief.

"Ironic they should call me that, isn't it, when he's the one who has all the power." Morgana wiped the dirt from her cheek and brushed the hair from her forehead, revealing a patch of dried blood, as if she'd recently fallen, or been attacked. 

"But you can't be speaking of _Mer_ lin—"

"That's exactly who's enslaved our child. And Mordred is indeed yours." Morgana snatched the papers from the table and thrust them at him, the movement seeming to wear her out again. She slumped back into the chair, paler than before. 

Knowing nothing of what Arthur had discovered that day about Merlin, Morgana had nevertheless filled in every gap in Arthur's knowledge as a painter might etch in the missing details of a portrait. There was, perhaps, no great mystery as he had romantically imagined, but only deceit. The man who emerged from the shadows was as manipulative and conniving as Arthur's father. It was no wonder Merlin kept Mordred secluded from the town, or why he'd been so unmoored at Arthur's discovery. He studied Morgana's face and now, yes, he could see Mordred in the inquisitive gaze of her eyes, in the curve of her lips. But there was something about the child's profile that was all Arthur. He couldn't imagine how he'd missed it so entirely before.

But here now was his chance to atone for his own irresponsibility and his father's sins, and restore a lost child to his mother's arms, as he himself never had felt the comfort of.

"Thank you, Morgana," he said at last, finding his voice again. It reassured him to hear how measured he sounded. His youth had ended that moment in London when the cameras had started flashing. "If you wouldn't mind leaving these with me, I'd like to look them over. Tomorrow we can contact the authorities, and I hope we can recover your son. I won't abandon you again." 

"Really?" Already beginning to weep, she drew herself from the chair and kneeled before him. Her head was in his lap before he could protest, and he found himself drawing a hand through her hair to calm her. 

"It'll be all right."

"But Arthur, we can't go to the police — they're useless. You don't know what Merlin is. There's no one who can challenge him." She raised her head and stared up at him, trusting. He wiped a tear from her cheek and nodded to encourage her to continue. "The people in Ealdor tell stories of beasts who take on human form and walk among us. I had thought such stories absurd once, but not anymore."

It was growing late. The only sound outside now was the screech of a falcon. Arthur remembered the child's dark hair, so unlike his own. He'd been oddly quiet, now that he thought of it. Arthur had left him alone out there in the woods. 

"What do you propose we do?"

*

"You're well again."

Arthur dipped his head into Merlin's cottage, which streaming daylight had transformed from yesterday's dismal hovel to a cheery if modest home. Upstairs the door to the bedroom that imprisoned Mordred was shut tight.

"You didn't believe me?" Merlin smiled. "I suffer these occasional… moments of weakness. But as you can see, they're only temporary." 

Indeed, it was beyond imagining this was the same man Arthur had carried through the forest only yesterday. This Merlin was busily tidying the cottage, his cheeks flushed a healthy red, his eyes bright and clear. He looked as sweet as he had the day they'd hid from the rain under the tree, but Arthur hardened himself against his weakness. He wanted the truth. 

"You have magic." 

Merlin paused without looking up. "I thought you didn't believe in such nonsense."

"I didn't. But some things have changed my mind."

"Did they? Well, you were always slow to allow yourself to believe." Merlin lifted the drinking glasses scattered around the sitting room one by one and brought them to the sink. "But I never minded, because it meant you were a careful judge, and once committing yourself, would never turn back."

It was a strange comment, eerily similar to how Arthur thought of himself. He didn't want to dwell on why Merlin had made such a study of him, but if Merlin was trying to manipulate him, it'd be best to ignore the attempt. He forced his lips into a smile, not wanting Merlin to suspect how much he knew.

"So why don't you just," Arthur waved his hands in the air, "I don't know, magic your dishes clean, instead of washing them like us common folk."

"First," Merlin said, glancing over his shoulder at Arthur with a shy smile, "don't pretend you've ever washed your own dishes in your life. And second, magic isn't something you do for convenience. I do magic only when there's no other choice. For the expenditure of power there's always a sacrifice."

"And what do you sacrifice?"

Merlin shrugged and made a noncommittal noise.

It wasn't difficult to guess. Arthur remembered how ill Merlin had looked in the café the day after the fire ritual. If what Arthur suspected was true, Merlin had traded his own physical strength for that power. What magic had weakened Merlin so much that he'd spent days unconscious in the woods before Arthur found him? He'd assumed Merlin had been hurt by someone else, but now… 

The blood on Morgana's forehead couldn't be a coincidence. Merlin had attacked her with magic and sapped his own strength in the process. He glanced again at the closed bedroom door upstairs. The child really was in danger, living under the spell of such a powerful sorcerer. Though his mind still revolted at the idea, it was all as Morgana had said. 

Outside, Merlin's dog barked in warning.

"Aith, quiet!" Merlin flashed Arthur a look of apology, but suddenly on edge, he peered out the window and seemed to be searching the tree line. The dog continued to bark.

"How's Mordred?" Arthur asked over the din, hoping to distract him.

"Fine." Merlin still scoured the outside surroundings. "Playing in his room upstairs. He likes to be alone."

"Mm."

The dog began to growl in earnest. Merlin wiped his hands on his trousers. "Let me go check on Aith. Sometimes she gets like this. Will you stay?"

Arthur nodded. 

It all happened very quickly after that.

* 

She knew the pathways of the forest better than he did.

Arthur hurried behind her with the boy in his arms. With the way Mordred kicked and fought, it was difficult to keep pace. Morgana cast worried glances back in the direction of the cottage from which they'd fled. 

Merlin would be coming back inside now, calling their names. He'd find the cottage strangely quiet, the back door still open from when Arthur had urged the boy through it straight into Morgana's waiting arms. _I'll explain it to him later, we have to hurry, it's our only chance._

Arthur steeled himself against the gnawing worry in his belly; Merlin had been brainwashing the boy his entire life, and this rescue was Mordred's only chance to reunite with his real mother. As Arthur lept across a muddy patch, his boot caught at the edge and sunk into the damp. 

"Quickly," Morgana called out to him. "This way."

He had no idea where she was taking them, or what she'd do once they escaped. Even if they made it out of the forest, how would they keep Mordred safe from someone as powerful and ruthless as Merlin? Mordred weighed heavily in his arms. 

"But where are we going?"

She didn't seem to hear. He should've brought the authorities into this. Rescuing a child wasn't something two civilians could succeed at alone. They'd need to fashion a new identity for Mordred from scratch. They'd need to defend him from Merlin's retaliation. Arthur caught himself thinking in the plural, and asked himself what his place was in their future, or how far he was willing to follow Morgana out of the life he knew and into hers.

He stumbled on a branch, but Morgana didn't pause. The boy had started to scream.

"Wait!"

He hurried to catch up, realising with every step how wild this was, how illegal. Was it kidnapping if the boy was already being held hostage? He was racing after her into madness, and impossibly, Arthur thought as he chased Morgana ahead of him, they were _his_. His family.

"It's okay, it's okay," he murmured over and over again as he ran, but Mordred only grew more frantic, repeating Merlin's name like a twisted mantra. It was impossible they wouldn't be followed. Arthur twisted around and squinted back into the dense forest, but the shadows moving behind the trees were probably nothing more than the delusions of his frightened mind. 

He remembered how kind Merlin's eyes had been the day he'd soothed the young mother in the pub. He'd found that missing child and several more besides. _Child snatcher._ What was so special about this one, about Arthur's son, that he was the only one Merlin wanted? 

A tree groaned and crashed to the ground in front of them no more than a few feet away. Arthur halted in his tracks to avoid the danger and grabbed Morgana just as she was about to be hit. The sudden collapse shook the ground and brought nearby seedlings to waste. It was strange for such a large tree to fall with so little warning. Mordred smiled.

"We won't have that again," she whispered to Mordred, who shouted as if in sudden pain. She grabbed him from Arthur's arms and hauled him forward by the hand, then hissed in warning when the boy writhed against her. Arthur had never seen that look on her face before. 

Mordred didn't want to go. 

Perhaps Morgana had been wrong about Merlin. Perhaps he'd not mistreated the child after all. It had somehow all made sense when she'd explained it. The imprisonment of the boy. The corruption of innocence. The only chance they'd have to save him. But Arthur couldn't make the reasons fit together now. Instead, they were unravelling like an old pullover snagged on wire, until all that was left was the terrible fear that he'd made the wrong decision, that once they were out of the forest what he'd done would be unchangeable. 

"Wait," he said, panting.

Morgana spun around. "There's no time."

"Let's take him to the authorities first. Get this sorted," he said, trying to catch his breath.

"The child is mine," she said with a glare. No vestige of the helpless woman who'd appeared in his cottage remained. Instead she was cold in her resolution, and Arthur's stomach dropped.

"Yes, of course he is, but let's do this the right way." 

When he went to pick Mordred back up, a painful force struck his shoulder and forced him back. He tried to find the object that had hit him, but there was nothing.

"What—"

Morgana was holding out an arm against him. The boy stopped crying and was standing in fearful silence at her side. The woods went so quiet even the whistling of the birds disappeared.

"You're slowing me down." 

Morgana's eyes were a strange colour, and the leaves on the forest floor swirled about her feet. Overhead, grey clouds darkened the sun and in spite of his exertions Arthur shook from the cold. She stepped towards him, and Arthur stumbled backwards. He knew then what real fear was. 

"Merlin's had centuries to master magic. I had no chance against him without you, but by yourself you're nothing. You've served your purpose."

The blood drained from Arthur's face. 

He'd made a terrible mistake. Merlin, quiet and cautious. Merlin, who'd been almost shy when he'd eaten the food from Arthur's hand. Merlin, who wielded his power only when it was absolutely necessary. Arthur's heart swelled with longing dampened by the knowledge that he'd so entirely misjudged the situation. He should've trusted his instincts. The cottage was ten minutes behind them at best. Merlin had no idea where they were, no way to save them now. Merlin had been protecting the child — Arthur searched the boy's strange face for answers — for reasons he didn't understand. 

"Please, Morgana. Whatever happened with my father, I will fix it. Now that I know the truth—"

She laughed. "Poor Arthur. Is that what you still think this is about? The revenge of a broken-hearted mother? It's so much bigger than that. This child is more powerful than you could ever dream. He'll be one of the greatest sorcerers to ever live, and with him I will take back these lands for magic. We've been slaves to your laws, to your pale imitation of, of — _tolerance_ for far too long."

Arthur cast about for something to protect himself with, but there was nothing. Mordred was frozen with fear, his eyes wide and haunted. Arthur had wanted to protect him, but all he'd done is deliver him into the arms of a woman maddened by rage. Could Mordred, his _son_ , the full weight of the truth settled over him at last, have magic? 

"I won't let you do this," he said. 

"Are you going to challenge me now, out here and alone, _Lord_ Arthur?" Morgana laughed. 

The last thing he remembered was Morgana raising her palm, and then all was darkness.


	4. i've searched for years, you've searched for lifetimes

Arthur awoke, disoriented. The mid-day sun fought with a dense mass of trees outside to illuminate the unfamiliar room. He remembered the trampled leaves in the forest, the boy's wide and fearful eyes, a jolt of power he couldn't see knocking him to the ground, and then, nothing.

_Idiot._

He sat up so fast the blood rushed to his head and dizzied him, and his limbs were as heavy as if someone had weighed them down with stones.

"Ow, bloody hell."

Arthur pressed his palms against his forehead and breathed. On the nightstand sat a crown of tarnished metal, a strange trinket. Crumpled in a ball on the floor, a hoodie Arthur recognised as Merlin's came to life, and he watched with surprise as a small lizard zipped out from underneath and scurried from the room under the door.

Well, at least now he knew where he was.

Downstairs, silverware clanged against dishes and the smell of something sweet drifted into the room. His captor was home, Arthur smiled to himself, only he could hardly call himself a prisoner with the way he'd been tucked, safe and protected, in the heavy cotton blankets that still carried the light woodsy scent he'd come to associate with Merlin. The only danger here was staying too long while Morgana carried the boy farther and farther away.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, and winced when the movement awoke an aching pain in his limbs, sharp enough to prove just how potent Morgana's attack had been. With his sluggish body and cloudy mind, he was as weak as if he'd been in his sickbed for a week, and the crown of his head throbbed from where he must have hit it when he fell. Bracing himself for the pain, he staggered to the door and crept down the stairs.

Merlin was hunched over the counter preparing food as if it were an ordinary day, and the two of them were flatmates, maybe even friends. More. Something in Arthur settled at the sight of him. He was wearing a t-shirt with jeans as if he were a teenager, but Arthur had come to understand how far that was from the truth, although what the truth was exactly, he couldn't say. The only thing Arthur knew for certain is he wanted to rush up behind him and wrap Merlin into his arms and apologise until he was forgiven for doubting him, for letting Morgana—. He drifted across the kitchen with no more than the idea of it, but stopped short of making a fool of himself.

"Hi," Arthur said instead, satisfying himself with a casual greeting.

Merlin jumped. "Jesus! You scared me half to death. Thought you were sleeping." Merlin's face went pink, and gazing at his worried eyes Arthur knew without question that Merlin couldn't be evil.

"We have to go after them," Arthur said.

Merlin shook his head and returned to peeling what Arthur could now see were potatoes. "Not yet. I've drawn out much of it, but Morgana's dark magic is still in your veins. You need to rest."

"I must've been asleep for hours — what day is it? They'll get too far."

"Wednesday. And not after Morgana's exhausted that much magic, they won't. She'll be lucky if she has enough strength left to find a good hole to hide out in."

Arthur swallowed. "There's no band of child snatchers stalking Ealdor, is there?"

Merlin shook his head as he sliced another potato. "There's only one child snatcher, and only one child Morgana wants. And it's not because she's his mother."

"So it's true then."

"Yes."

"And he's — mine."

Merlin's tense silence told Arthur everything.

"You _knew_? I don't understand — you owe me nothing, but still — how could you have let us be in the same room together and not even give me a hint?"

Merlin was silent so long Arthur thought he wouldn't reply, but the shaking of his hands betrayed the fragility of his self-composure.

"The truth is I blame myself for everything that's happened. Not how I wanted to introduce you two, believe me." Merlin chopped a potato in half with a little too much force. "But this isn't about what I want, or what you want. It never was. There's so much more at risk. Do you have any idea what your father would be capable of, if he found out—.

Arthur already had a taste of what his father was capable of, and he could well understand Merlin's desire to shelter Mordred from him. But Arthur wasn't his father.

Merlin had started to hack away at what remained of the potatoes with heightened anxiety, and Arthur, intimidated by the single-mindedness of the slaughter, worried for the safety of Merlin's fingers. He hurried up behind him.

"Will you put that down?"

"Sorry."

Merlin laid the knife on the cutting board with a sigh, and for a few moments his shoulders rose and fell with the strain of his breathing. Arthur didn't like seeing him like this. He pulled him around so they were facing each other, and ignoring the flutter in his stomach, traced the edge of Merlin's cheek. It was even softer than it looked. "Why did you keep him from me?"

"What I allowed to happen before, it didn't have to turn out like that. I know that now. I won't let it happen a second time, not in this life." Merlin touched his face where Arthur's fingers had been. "I didn't keep Mordred _from_ you, Arthur. I kept him _for_ you. But I failed even in that. I'm sorry."

"No, I'm the one who should be sorry," Arthur finally managed to say. Having been welcomed into Merlin's home only to steal the child right out from under his nose, he was weighed down by his own burden of guilt. "I betrayed you."

"You didn't. You're just as you've always been, trying to do the right thing."

This close, the inch Merlin had over Arthur showed. Although he was blushing again and his breath uneven, Merlin made no move to liberate himself from Arthur's proximity. A weary smile played about his mouth. In other circumstances Arthur might have permitted himself to find out how warm Merlin's lips were, or to test the angles of his shoulders, his hips. He wished for the innocent days of his youth, before he knew all that he did now.

The appearance of a warm orange glow beneath Merlin's t-shirt startled him. The light seemed to pulse as if alive, and as Arthur watched, it shifted in colour, first darkening to red before it dimmed to a faint gold. He'd seen this before. As mesmerising as it had been from afar that night in the forest, up close it was so fascinating Arthur had to understand more, and when his fingers found the bottom hem of Merlin's shirt, Merlin made no move to stop him.

It wasn't a tattoo. That was the first thing Arthur understood. Whatever it was, it was not etched into Merlin's skin so much as it, impossibly, _was_ Merlin's skin, a patchwork of geometrical shapes, interlocking octagons that rippled and shifted as Merlin breathed. Some were the same colour as the human skin that surrounded it, but the rest glowed iridescent as if there were a fire lit from within Merlin's belly. The ache of the scar on Arthur's own stomach throbbed in response. Arthur reached out to touch the strange skin, and Merlin went rigid. They stared at each other for a long moment.

"What are you?" Arthur asked.

"It happens when I do magic."

"Are you doing magic now?"

"No."

"Then why—"

"You're still weak. If you go back to bed, I'll bring you something to eat as soon as I can."

Arthur released him. Outside the sky was turning grey and the branches of the trees whipped in the wind. He trusted Merlin but he didn't understand him, and the strangeness of the world he'd found himself a part of was hammering against the pain in his head.

"I can't just stay here and do nothing. I created this mess, and I need to fix it. I think I know where to find her."

"Where?" Merlin raised an eyebrow and wiped off his hands.

*

"We have to stop," Merlin said. "You're exhausted."

"Nonsense, I'm fine." Arthur fought to keep his eyes focused on the dark road. Between Merlin forcing him to eat and then half-carrying him all the way to Arthur's car, they'd squandered an hour already. Stopping now would only cost them more time. He'd hoped to rest on the journey, but abandoned the idea when Merlin revealed he didn't know how to drive and mumbled something incomprehensible about horses being good enough and much nicer anyway.

"You're not _fine_. You drove off the road a minute ago, and you can barely stay awake. Pull over now."

"Were you always this bossy?" Arthur asked. He smiled in reassurance even though he truly was, as Merlin had noticed, fatigued with a weariness that went far deeper than anything he'd felt before. Perhaps it'd been impetuous to hurry out of the safety of Merlin's cottage only to be forced to seek accommodation in the deserted wilds of Scotland.

"I've grown calmer over the years."

"The years, hm? You barely look like you've graduated from uni. How old are you, anyway?"

"Plenty old. And don't change the subject."

"Aw, that's not fair. You seem to know everything about me, but you won't reveal a thing about yourself. If you tell me where you're from and how you came to Ealdor, I promise to break for a quick nap." The pavement blurred and Arthur opened his eyes wider.

"You need a lot more sleep than a nap will give."

" _Mer_ lin."

"Okay, okay. I was born in the mountains outside Ealdor, but I left as a teenager because I stupidly believed I had a destiny. I was wrong, and when I realised that, I came back. I never left again."

Merlin tapped the glass of the window, and although he acted casual, the nervous hammering of his leg betrayed him. Arthur wanted him to explain more but hesitated to ask when he feared jeopardizing the patched-up trust between them again. He couldn't define what connected them, only that its strength grew with each passing day.

Still, there was something Merlin was reluctant to confide to him, and Arthur guessed it had everything to do with that strange patch of scales on his torso, which glowed in the darkness of the car even now. He was something else, something Arthur could understand only the rough outlines of. Arthur wished Merlin knew how different he was from the man he'd been the first day they'd met on Ealdor's streets, and even from the man who'd run away in the woods with Morgana. There was nothing Merlin wouldn't be able to tell him.

"When I was a little boy, I spent most of my time with a nanny. Finna was her name. She was a Druid, and she used to tell me the most amazing stories," Arthur said.

Merlin eyed him warily.

Undeterred, Arthur continued, trying to keep his voice light. "My favorite stories were about dragons who lived for hundreds of years, sometimes thousands. Finna told me the dragons had mostly disappeared from our world, but if you looked hard enough, you could still spot them pretending to be human, and if you met one and captured its heart, it would never leave your side."

Arthur tried to gauge Merlin's reaction. His face was as if made of stone, and his leg shook more than before.

"My father would get into a rage whenever he caught her telling me those stories. _Stop filling his head with nonsense_ , he would always say. But I wanted to believe them." Arthur stilled Merlin's thigh with his hand. "I do believe them."

Merlin squashed himself against the car door and seemed to have trouble breathing. "There's something up ahead. Looks like a house. Maybe they'll have room for us."

Arthur sighed and withdrew his hand. Some walls could not be breached.

He eased the car off the road, and five minutes later he was hovering behind Merlin at the doorstep of a dilapidated old farmhouse. With the car lights doused, the world was painted blacker than even in Ealdor. Arthur shivered.

At last a light appeared inside, and an old woman greeted them in Gaelic. Merlin must really have possessed magic, because after a brief conference she pointed behind the house while Merlin nodded, and she even spared a smile for Arthur before closing the door behind her.

"Told you the people out here are kind to strangers."

"Where are we going?" Arthur chased after Merlin the best he could although he was so sluggish he was in danger of collapsing on the spot. He felt like he'd been drugged.

"No space in the house, but she said we were welcome to stay the night in her barn. Should be warm, and there's a pallet inside."

"Barn? You can't be serious."

"Stop being so high and mighty."

Arthur was about to protest, but decided not to argue. The overwhelming need to lie down made the idea of a dirty old mattress almost appealing. After they found their way inside the barn, Arthur collapsed onto the pallet with a weary sigh and relished the darkness settling around him, startling only when he realised Merlin still hovered nearby.

"Come." Arthur reached his hand up at Merlin, who made no move to take it. Although narrow, the pallet was not so small that two men couldn't fit on it. "It's only a few hours, and we both need the rest. Sleep here."

Merlin hesitated, but after another scan of the barn he dropped to the furthest edge and curled into a tight ball. In the dim light Arthur watched him shiver with cold.

It was stupid to feel protective of a sorcerer, but in spite of his own exhaustion Arthur longed to draw Merlin into his arms and keep him safe from the dark forces that threatened them. Not wanting to overstep, he settled for pressing his back against Merlin's to warm them both, and exhausted from Morgana's attack, fell into a troubled sleep.

When he awoke darkness still hung about the barn, and behind him Merlin lay warm and familiar. Arthur's mind emerged bit by bit from foggy dreams, and although fatigue still lingered in his limbs, the aches from Morgana's attack had disappeared. A rustling revealed Merlin slept fitfully, and the impulse to comfort him prompted Arthur to turn over. He watched the back of Merlin's shoulders rise and fall with his staggered breathing.

Merlin could be so aloof Arthur hadn't dared broach the question that had most haunted his thoughts, which had little to do with sorcerers or dragons or magic. A possible answer implied itself in the soft tone Merlin sometimes adopted when they spoke, in the proximity with which Merlin allowed him and no one else. He remembered how struck he'd been the first time he saw Merlin, and how he'd ached every time they'd been near each other thereafter. It wasn't just the loneliness of living in Ealdor; it wouldn't have mattered if Arthur had still lived in the heart of London surrounded by a hundred admirers, he would've hungered for Merlin. He would, he realised with surprise, have suffered the scandal and his forced resignation again gladly, because that's what had brought them to each other.

Uncertain he'd be welcome, Arthur folded his arms across his chest to keep temptation at bay. Merlin was so near that Arthur could feel the heat of his body, and on the narrow pallet their legs almost touched. His efforts at self-restraint were in vain; having denied himself the opportunity to embrace Merlin, it wasn't long before Arthur instead found himself burying his face in the soft hair at the nape of Merlin's neck. He was permitted to lie there a few minutes before the inevitable protest came.

"Please don't. You wouldn't if you knew what it was to me."

Dread sickened Arthur's stomach and he jolted away. He was wrong once again; it must've been the strain of recent events that had allowed him to imagine something other than friendship in Merlin's behaviour.

"Please forgive me. I made an assumption, and I was mistaken. I'll sleep somewhere else."

"No." Merlin grabbed his arm, but just as quickly drew away. "I'm not offended."

"You don't have to worry about hurting my feelings. Let's pretend it never happened." Whatever Merlin was, as beautiful and inviting as he looked, he wasn't a man to be held and kissed as Arthur wanted.

"That wasn't what I — the easy way things are between you and Gwaine, I'm not like that. I can't just… be with you tonight and watch you with other men, with Gwaine, tomorrow."

"Is that the way you think it is?"

"I see the way he looks at you. I can guess." Merlin shrugged. "You're so beautiful, everyone has always wanted you."

At first Arthur couldn't believe what he'd heard, but then hope rekindled in his chest. It wasn't the rejection he'd been fearing. Emboldened, Arthur burrowed closer. "He did try once. In the woods. But I don't want him. Since I met you I haven't wanted anyone else."

This time when Arthur went to pull Merlin over to face him, he didn't resist. Arthur tugged him closer until he was half-laying across his chest with the most satisfying weight. Not even the sharpness of Merlin's elbow in his ribs disturbed him, nor did Merlin's lingering gaze. His lashes were long and his lips soft, and he stirred against Arthur's thigh. Arthur let him look.

"What?" Merlin asked.

"You what."

They smiled at each other. In spite of their surroundings, Arthur savoured the warm tension between them. The moment wouldn't last, not with the journey they had ahead of them, but it was sweet while he could hold onto it.

He traced the strange tattoo encircling Merlin's eye. The strands wove through each other and met in a ring with no beginning, no end. "What's it mean?"

"Difficult to explain."

"Try me."

Merlin hesitated. "A long time ago, someone I loved died very young. There was a hollow in the woods near where he'd passed. I was so overwhelmed with grief I lay there for days, couldn't move. I stopped sleeping, even eating. Eventually someone from a nearby village found me and helped me recover, but though I was strong again I knew I couldn't go back to the life I'd had, to be haunted by that empty place. So instead I went home to Ealdor. I was broken. I wanted to brand his memory on my face so no one could look at me without knowing." Merlin scratched lightly at Arthur's shirt. "But the tattoo isn't only to remember the past by. It's also a reminder that one day he'll return."

A strange feeling took root in Arthur's gut, but he brushed it aside. Merlin was confiding in him and he wanted to listen. "I'm sorry. My mother died before I knew her, but I miss her anyway. I know what it's like to have to face the truth. That no one ever comes back."

"But you did."

He couldn't make sense of Merlin sometimes, but the pain evident in his knitted brow stirred Arthur's sympathy, and he stroked Merlin's face, his hair. He longed to console Merlin for all he'd suffered. His hands wandered as if already familiar with the terrain of Merlin's body, and Merlin's grip on him tightened in response. The air grew thick between them.

"Have you ever been with a man before?" Arthur's voice sounded gruffer than intended.

"I've never been with anyone."

"No one?"

Merlin continued to tug at the material of Arthur's shirt instead of meeting his gaze. "It was impossible before. So many reasons. And then after... well," he shook his head, "there could never've been anyone else for me."

"And now?"

"Now…"

Arthur lay very still. For a moment he thought Merlin might kiss him, but he didn't. Instead, his wandering fingers found their way under Arthur's shirt and explored his skin. Arthur closed his eyes.

Then Merlin discovered his birthmark.

It had always marred Arthur's stomach, but the thin dimpled line, however ugly, couldn't be the cause of the distress in Merlin's eyes, could it? Nothing so unimportant could provoke so much horror, yet Merlin shook with emotion that threatened to erupt. Arthur sought out Merlin's embrace and tried to reassure him that the scar was nothing, that it didn't hurt, but Merlin wouldn't be calmed. He rubbed at the blemish as if by doing so he could erase it, and when that failed, he whispered _no, no, no_ and lay his face against it, his tears an unexpected wetness on Arthur's skin.

It was then that the vision came.

An old castle built with thick, crude stone like the ruins he'd toured in Wales, but here unbroken and strong, strewn with flowing banners of rich silk. He was sitting at a round table that stretched across the width of a great hall. The material of his coat was tattered and a red scarf hung about his neck.

The man sitting to his right was, impossibly, himself.

It was Arthur as he might look in several years, his face set in firm lines, his knit brow already beginning to show the signs of age; it was as if he'd left his own body and was watching himself from afar, cloaked in red with a weighty crown upon his head, as he rose and addressed the assembly.

 _"_ From this day forth, magic will no longer be forbidden in Camelot. The Druid people may live in peace and are welcome to resettle here, should they wish it."

The barn door rattled, jolting Arthur out of the reverie. He gasped for air. He would have sworn the vibrant vision had been real. Merlin's hands, gone clammy, were sticky against his stomach. Again the noise sounded outside.

"Someone's trying to get in."

Merlin pushed Arthur down on the pallet and angled his head to listen. It was silent, and then came a loud thump. Merlin jumped up.

"Don't move," he said with a hiss. Terror turned his eyes hard. The moonlight shining between the barn's wooden slats flitted over Merlin as he hurried to the door.

Arthur had never been one to take orders well. Ignoring Merlin's instructions, he grabbed a piece of nearby wood and followed him. Merlin scolded him with his eyes, but Arthur wouldn't be deterred. He wasn't going to allow Merlin to face whatever was out there alone.

With two quick gestures of his hand, Arthur motioned for Merlin to open the door, then get out of the way. He flattened himself against the wall behind the door hinge and waited. Merlin flashed him one last look of disapproval, but adopted the pose Arthur had directed. When the assailants entered, Arthur would knock them unconscious before they'd had a chance to attack. If it was Morgana so much the better; Mordred was certain to be nearby.

Arthur raised his makeshift weapon and nodded in readiness. Merlin undid the latch. For a few tense moments they waited in fear.

A sheep rushed past Merlin's feet and just managed to avoid the heavy swing of Arthur's weapon, which having missed its target, lodged itself in the dirt of the barn floor. Then it was silent. It took Arthur a minute to understand that nothing more was out there, that they'd been terrified by a harmless animal. The sheep bleated in protest at the attempted attack but soon abandoned its indignation in favour of munching on the bottom of Arthur's trousers until, pushed away, it scampered into a dark corner of the barn.

Chests heaving, Merlin and Arthur recovered in silence. Then Merlin cracked a smile, and they both collapsed with laughter as intense as their fear had been strong.

"Stupid animal."

"God, you should've seen your face."

"My face? You were about to run it through with your…" Merlin gestured at the piece of wood in Arthur's hand, "sad little sword."

"Sad, is it?" Arthur stalked closer, pushed the barn door shut over Merlin's shoulder, and refitted the latch. He let his hand linger, and with the tension ignited by their proximity, it turned serious again between them. Merlin stumbled back but succeeded in only knocking his head against the door. With his wide eyes he appeared more flustered than hurt, and he searched the barn over Arthur's shoulder as if looking for a way out.

Arthur didn't want him to find one. They'd been running in circles around this since the day Arthur had first spotted him on Ealdor's streets. Maybe for longer than even that. Arthur crowded Merlin until his next step found Merlin's foot and their trousers brushed together, close now, and he traced the angles of Merlin's jaw.

"We shouldn't. You're still recovering," Merlin said, though he was already gripping Arthur's shirt.

"Don't care. I've wanted to kiss you for too long."

Merlin's voice wavered. "But—"

Arthur fisted his hands in Merlin's hair and their lips came together. That was the end of Merlin's hesitation. Merlin's mouth was hard and wanting against his, and the faint scruff on Merlin's cheeks set the skin of Arthur's face humming. It was different from the casual lust Arthur had found in other men's arms; Merlin clutched at his clothes like a man escaping quicksand, only the more tightly he held on, the more he seemed to sink.

Arthur answered Merlin's passion with equal abandonment. He surrendered to their embrace and savoured the press of Merlin's body against his own. How had he endured waiting so long for this? Dizzy with a kind of euphoric craving, Arthur's world condensed to the sensation of Merlin's lips moving against his, the smoothness of his skin, the scent of his hair. Merlin had awakened something deep inside him that he'd sensed before but had never understood.

The blossoming dawn light tinged Merlin's face red and set his cheekbones to flame, and the barn fell silent except for Merlin's soft moans and the rustle of their clothing. The smell of hay and earth mixed with the pine scent of Merlin's skin, and mouthing at his collarbones, Arthur discovered with unexpected pleasure the mingled taste of sweat and dirt. These few precious minutes weren't enough for everything Arthur wanted to do: linger in Merlin's arms and kiss him for all eternity; rip off his clothes, mount and ride him until they were both destroyed. Arthur's hips jerked involuntarily at the thought and with a suddenness that shocked them both he reached down and squeezed Merlin's thickness through his jeans.

Merlin gasped and bit Arthur's lip so hard he drew blood.

Arthur licked the wound in surprise, but on its heels came rushing a thrill of desire, just as unexpected as the initial sharp pain. His lip pulsed with life, and it seemed right somehow that Merlin should so cut into the truth of him; nor did he miss the specks of gold shining in Merlin's eyes. Merlin pressed his finger to Arthur's lip, and when he pulled away, his finger gleamed with Arthur's blood. As if in a trance, Merlin drew red lines across his cheeks, marking himself.

"I belong to you. I always have," Merlin said.

The inexplicable words, the sight of Merlin stained with his blood struck Arthur deep in his gut. He hauled Merlin closer by the back of the neck and buried his face in his throat. It was true. Merlin wanted him, wanted this, and the needy jerking of Merlin's body, the hard line of his cock instructed Arthur more than words ever could.

Arthur sucked at the copper trail his bloodied lip left on Merlin's skin, and with impatience eroding the last of his gentleness, ripped open the thin material of Merlin's t-shirt to expose the marked skin and scaled flesh of Merlin's body. Strange as he was, Arthur wanted to taste every bit of him. With his tongue he followed the line of tattoos that ran from Merlin's neck to his ribs and mouthed at his nipples, and encouraged by Merlin's shocked gasp, Arthur sucked them into tight peaks.

Lust dizzied him and made him impatient. He dropped to his knees and tore open Merlin's trousers. Merlin wound his fingers through Arthur's hair and was already begging by the time Arthur freed him. Arthur stared at the prize he'd uncovered. Merlin's cock was the fullest he'd ever seen, almost unnaturally long with a girth that both intimidated and excited him, blush-coloured and uncut as he'd always imagined. Despite the seeming weight of it, it stood powerful and erect, capable of ruining a man, but for all that beautiful in its firmness. The skin was smooth except for two ribbed threads of flesh, which echoed the scales on Merlin's belly, running down each of its sides.

Arthur drew back the foreskin to reveal the swollen head, now wet with the evidence of Merlin's arousal. Arthur licked him clean, and almost as soon as he did so Merlin's knees buckled and Arthur had to pin him against the door to hold him upright. He remembered that Merlin was a virgin, and that he, Arthur, was the first man to ever touch Merlin like this, and the knowledge made him suck all the more eagerly at the head of Merlin's cock. In spite of his efforts, he succeeded in getting no more than half of Merlin's impossible length in his mouth, but the urgency with which Merlin pulled at Arthur's hair revealed how much Arthur's attentions pleased him anyway.

When Arthur ran his tongue along each of the scaled bands of skin, Merlin moaned his name needily. Arthur did so again, delighting in Merlin's sensitivity there, and himself pleasured by the strange texture of the patterned skin. He licked and sucked until saliva dripped from his lips and his jaw ached, but he wanted more, and from the irregular rhythm of his hips, it was evident Merlin was coming apart, too. Arthur hungered to feel Merlin inside him. He would drag them both down to the muddy floor and wrestle Merlin until they were joined.

Merlin tugged at Arthur's shirt in frustration. "Please. I have to see you. I've waited so long."

Arthur would not deny a single one of Merlin's requests, and he hurried to comply, eager himself to be finally admired by those inscrutable eyes. He scrambled up from his knees and shed his clothes so that he stood naked before Merlin. He flushed as Merlin looked him over with evident want, his gaze lingering on his chest and then dropping down to examine the rest of him. It felt good to please Merlin, and Arthur palmed his aching cock for relief.

"You're more beautiful than I remembered." Merlin's eyes were full gold now, the dragon skin around his bare waist pulsing and alive. He wasn't fully human. Arthur couldn't imagine how he'd ever thought he was.

Arthur, throbbing with the need to be touched, tugged at his nipple. He thought of Merlin's mouth on his again, of Merlin holding him down and pressing him open, and shameless now even with Merlin watching, he stroked himself harder and moaned. With his knees weakening, he wondered how long Merlin would torture them both with waiting and at last mumbled something like _please_. The fragile sound seemed to jolt Merlin from his daze.

Merlin stepped into his embrace, and together they tumbled to the ground. Their clothes made an imperfect blanket through which sharp stalks of hay pricked Arthur's flesh. It was the kind of thing that would've bothered him a month ago. But here with Merlin on top of him, Arthur only sought the heat of Merlin's skin, the delicious weight of him. Arthur parted his thighs and Merlin settled between them. They kissed and rocked against each other on the barn floor until their cocks were both heavy with want. They had to hurry. God, they'd wasted too much time as it was. He should've been tangled in Merlin's arms weeks ago, years.

The dawn light was beginning to filter into the barn, revealing Merlin kneeling over him like a conquering warrior at last claiming his prize. His face was a mess of blood and dirt and Arthur belonged to him.

"I need," Arthur said, slipping two fingers between Merlin's lips until they were well coated, "you inside me."

Arthur lifted his knees to his chest and found his hole with wet fingers. It had been so long since he'd been with a man, and he was so tight. It was a relief to at last stretch himself ready for Merlin, the pressure and the burn a welcome answer to his desire. He rocked his hips into a second finger and moaned.

Merlin made a choked sound when he caught sight of what Arthur was doing.

"Oh gods, Arthur, I never thought I'd see you like this." Merlin's eyes flared gold, and Arthur felt a sudden slickness on his fingers that eased their passage. Had Merlin...? His fingers slid in and out of his hole without effort now, and Arthur worked himself harder, part embarrassed by how wet Merlin had made him, but part aroused, too, to be opening under Merlin's power without Merlin even touching him. He could feel his rim loosening. It wouldn't be long now.

Merlin, watching Arthur from under hooded eyes, stroked his cock in slow movements full of intent. He was even more beautiful now that Arthur could see him in the light, and he was larger than any man he'd taken before. His cock, Arthur thought as he stretched himself wider, was almost bestial, and soon he would be split open upon it.

"Hurry," Arthur said, more than ready now, and guided Merlin where he needed to be filled. Merlin kissed him with hunger, and for a moment they were both lost in it, in just that, with Merlin caressing his skin and Arthur threading his fingers through Merlin's hair. Arthur could feel Merlin's largeness, already wet with need, pressing against his hole.

"I made us both slick, but I'm afraid I'm too big," Merlin murmured into his mouth.

"You're perfect." Arthur threw his leg over Merlin's shoulder in offer. "God, please, just—"

He needn't have begged.

It was like being broken apart. After Merlin's initial hesitant push at his entrance, neither of them had the patience for gentleness. Arthur grabbed Merlin's arse and urged them together with as much restraint as he could endure. Merlin gasped _Sire_ into his neck, and his pleading dissolved into mumblings in an old language Arthur couldn't decipher. The ribbed flesh of Merlin's cock slid against the tender skin inside him and heightened his sensitivity. Nothing had ever felt like this before. Arthur closed his eyes and gave himself over to the pleasure Merlin wrested from him.

He ran his fingers down the scaled flesh of Merlin's back, and in his mind he heard a great sound as wings beating in the air. Merlin surged against him, and Arthur rose to meet him. Merlin's weight grew heavy and he imagined being pinned down on the muddy ground by unyielding talons. The pressure in his balls turned tight at the thought and with a few last hard thrusts from Merlin he spilled between their bellies. Merlin cursed as Arthur came apart, and then, suffocating Arthur with his mouth, shuddered through his own release.

Arthur winced at the loss when Merlin finally withdrew. He tucked a stray piece of hair behind Merlin's ear and smiled. Merlin kissed his brow and threaded their fingers together. Arthur's heart was too full for words, but it didn't matter. They'd never had need of those.

*

As much as Arthur wanted to, there wasn't time to linger in Merlin's arms. They washed themselves in the cold water of the well, and shivering, drew on their clothes in silence. Arthur sensed Merlin suffered the same confusing mix of emotions as he did: dread of the future, more ominous now in the reality of the morning light, but also a new contentment that manifested itself in the easy ways they prepared each other for the journey and knew what the other needed without asking. At last he was no longer alone.

"Feeling better?" Merlin asked.

"Strong as an ox." Arthur buckled his belt, not missing the appreciate sweep of Merlin's eyes across his chest. Merlin looked good, too — solid — in spite of the trouble he'd endured at Morgana's hands, tired and a little battle-scarred perhaps, but weathering his trials more like a seasoned warrior than a man on the cusp of defeat. He would trust Merlin to get them through what was coming.

The rest of the journey passed quickly, and it wasn't long before they were standing in a forest clearing behind the property his father had bribed Morgana with, a place Arthur knew well from childhood travels. He prayed his hunch was right.

"Just through this path, and we'll see the house. There are tunnels running between the woods and the basement, long ago they were used for emergency escapes during raids. I'm certain Morgana knows nothing of them."

It had been a favorite pastime when Arthur had been a boy. With a makeshift sword and shield in his hands and an upturned mixing bowl on his head, he'd run through the tunnels yelling for the intruders to fight him if they dared. He'd never suspected he'd one day be the intruder himself, or that he would face an enemy quite like Morgana.

"Can you still… shift?" Arthur asked.

"No. I settled into this form long ago so I could live alongside..." Merlin looked down. "But now the magic in the world is different. I'm the last, there are none left to call me to change back."

"I'm sorry."

"There's no need. I don't regret the decision I made. I still have magic, I still command fire."

Arthur wanted to hold him, but he settled for clapping Merlin on the shoulder. "Ready?"

They kept low to the ground until Arthur spotted the clump of raised earth where grass grew thin. The overgrowth protected the latch, but once Arthur had dug deep enough he was met by cold metal, and the door gave way with some tugging and sweat. They disappeared into the earth.

" _Leohtbora_."

The dank walls of the tunnel were at once illuminated by a ball of fire that hovered above Merlin's palm. Arthur stared.

"What?"

Arthur snapped his attention back to the tunnel snaking out before them. "Nothing. Just getting used to it." He led them to the left when the path forked, and then right, following the route he'd memorised in his youth. It smelled of decay. It shouldn't be far now.

"The entrance is somewhere along here, if you can shine that light."

A low doorway had been carved out of the rock in a dark recess. The tunnel burrowed on to the far side of the property, an alternative escape route. Arthur wiped the dirt from the door and squeezed his fingers beneath one edge, then yanked hard. It didn't budge.

"Let me," Merlin said.

A few muttered words and the heavy door swung open with a creak. Magic, it seemed, had its advantages, and they'd barely scratched the surface of what Merlin could do. No wonder it terrified Arthur's father.

They walked down a narrow passageway opening up to a dark cellar, lit by only the scant light that found its way in through windows set high on the walls. An old wooden table sat in the centre surrounded by chairs long ago abandoned. Cells with iron bars ringed the basement and loomed no less fearsome now that they'd fallen out of use.

"A prison," Merlin said, horror twisting his face as if he'd seen a ghost.

"Once. They're not uncommon in old estates such as these. Find them creepy myself. I used to dare myself to come down here at night when I was a child, but some things get even more frightening when you're older, when you understand what people can do to each other. I hope I haven't put us through all this for nothing."

"You haven't. They're here."

"You hear something?" Arthur whispered, drawing out an old hunting knife.

"Yes, no. It's hard to explain. Mordred and I have our own way of communicating, he can..." Merlin cocked his head and listened. "Come this way."

They ascended the winding staircase until they reached the top floor of the manor. What greeted them was but the skeleton of the formerly cheerful home Arthur remembered. The rooms were barren, with no furnishings to cover the broken stone of the floor and no portraits to brighten the walls. All traces of his mother were gone. Uther had stamped out the past as thoroughly as if it had never existed.

Arthur followed Merlin down the hallway into the chamber at the very end, the room that had once been his own. A figurine of a horse, one of Arthur's old toys, had survived the purge and lay waiting on the cracked floor. Wind blew through a pair of exterior doors and disturbed the cobwebs clinging to the ceilings.

There standing out on the balcony was Mordred, watching them with a disconcerting calmness as if he'd been expecting them to arrive at any moment. Arthur resisted the urge to sweep him up in his arms.

Merlin ran to him. "Are you hurt?"

The boy shook his head no. Merlin grabbed his hand and pulled him from the balcony back into the room, then crouched down and examined him for injuries. Mordred submitted to his worried ministrations, and when Merlin appeared satisfied he stroked Mordred's cheek once with his thumb. His eyes were gleaming.

"We have to hurry," Arthur said at last.

They moved as quietly as they could manage. The occasional clatter of a dislodged stone in the floor betrayed them, but Merlin, still holding Mordred by the hand, didn't pause. Arthur followed with his knife at the ready. If they could only make it to the basement, they'd find safety back through the tunnel.

They tumbled down the stairs until the great hall on the main floor came into view. Despite the passage of time, its vastness did not fail to impress, and the collection of medieval weaponry mounted on the walls gave it an ancient but regal appearance. Arthur's eyes lingered on one particularly noble sword for just a moment too long.

Morgana flew out from the shadows, her hair as wild as her eyes.

"You can't have him!"

She hurled a curse that Merlin easily deflected, and Arthur realised then what she'd said about needing Arthur, that she'd never get Mordred without him, had been true. Formidable as she was, her power wasn't half of Merlin's.

"Please." Her shoulders slumped in apparent defeat, and she was once again the woman who begged Arthur for help. "He's my son."

Merlin's eyes iced over. "Maybe once you could've been a mother to him, but you've been poisoned by your own bitterness. I know what you intend to use him for, and I won't let that happen."

"How can you—"

Outside, the sound of approaching vehicles interrupted her. They froze.

"Who's that?" Merlin motioned for Arthur to check the window. His hand was still raised against Morgana.

"I don't know. No, wait." Arthur peered as the new arrivals came into view, and when the vehicles rounded the corner of the drive, Arthur couldn't believe what he saw. "Damn. It's my father."

The news distracted Merlin, and his hand wavered. Morgana didn't miss the opportunity.

A sword flew from its mount on the wall and sliced through the air, heading straight for Merlin's chest.

"Merlin!"

There was a moment when time seemed to stand still, and then the pattern of the room shifted. Merlin shoved Mordred out of the path of the sword, and the boy landed just feet away from Morgana. Her eyes locked on him, alone finally and vulnerable. Arthur was too far away to reach him in time, and Merlin, Arthur realised with horror, had caught the blade on the shoulder and had collapsed to the ground, his blood colouring the cold stones of the floor red.

Outside car doors were slamming shut, and heavy boots crunched on the gravel of the drive. There wasn't much time. Arthur prayed whatever they'd once shared between them would be enough to dissuade Morgana from killing him. He dashed for the child.

"Get away from him, you fool." Morgana raised her hand in warning. She was already towering over the boy, and as Arthur looked on helplessly she grabbed Mordred by his shirt collar and dragged him up from the floor. Her eyes flitted to the door, behind which low voices could be heard, and searched for another way out. "I'll be unstoppable with Mordred by my side. I won't let you get in my way."

Arthur crept forward, trying not to provoke her, but Morgana seemed focused on Merlin, who was coming round, and the intruders who would push through the door at any moment, to bother with him now. She drew Mordred back to the stairs. One flight down and she'd be in the basement. If she found the secret passage on her own, Mordred would be lost to them.

Merlin lay unmoving on the floor, but beneath his clothes fire was pulsing again. Arthur caught Merlin's eye and an unspoken thought seemed to pass between them. Arthur nodded.

Behind him the great door groaned open and the cold intonations of his father's voice shouting orders echoed through the hall. Arthur shuddered to hear it. It was the same harsh voice that had controlled him his entire life. Uther had shaped and disciplined him, and when he wouldn't yield, Uther had forced him into exile, and yet the old loyalty stirred in his blood. Arthur struggled against it. There was only one man he owed devotion to now.

Merlin raised himself from the floor. His eyes flashed in warning and his body shone now as if he were burning alive. It was the only chance Arthur would get. He lunged at Morgana, and in the split second she caught sight of Uther, a look of pure hurt flashing across her face that Arthur would never forget, Arthur wrested the boy from her and pushed him out of danger. Arthur ducked for cover.

" _Ligfyr!_ "

A wall of flames sprang up in front of him and Morgana, cutting them off from the boy. Morgana screamed in shocked frustration, but although she hurled enchantments at the fire, she didn't have the strength to douse it.

Only a few feet away, the stairs behind them descended to the basement.

"Go," Arthur said. "If you want to survive, you'll leave right now."

"I won't leave without him." Morgana said, but the conviction had already deserted her voice. She glanced worriedly at the uniformed guards who were spilling into the hall.

Arthur remembered her laugh from so many years ago, the happiness in her eyes. She was his sister, whatever she'd done, and he couldn't imagine what Uther would do to her if he caught her now. There was still time. The fire Merlin had created blazed on, and as much as it separated them from Mordred, it also protected them from Uther.

"Come with me." Arthur grabbed Morgana by the arm and pulled her back toward the stairs.

"What are you—"

"Do you want to live or do you want those men to drag you back to London like an animal?"

"They can't touch me. I have magic." She tried to shrug him off, but the gesture was only half-convincing.

"You're not the first they've hunted. You want to find out how yourself? Come on, give it up, Morgana. You won't get Mordred today. Please. I know how to get you out of here."

She looked at Mordred over the flames, who had since wrapped himself in Merlin's arms, then over at Uther's guards organizing themselves into an attack formation. "Where are we going?"

The echoes of Uther's shouting followed them as they ran down the stairway and disappeared into the dark cellar. Arthur prayed Merlin could protect himself. He would. He'd lived for countless years and endured.

Morgana's hand was still in his, and she shuddered when they passed the old iron bars of the prison cells. Was it fear alone that compelled her to trust him? He wanted to believe she could still redeem herself, but he couldn't fool himself that this would last. Still, he wouldn't be the one to deny her the chance. He led her to the tunnel entrance, opened the metal door, and guided her through.

"This is as far as I go."

She turned, one foot already through the door. "Why are you helping me?"

"You're family."

"You believe me, then?"

"I believe some things."

"He's mine, you know. I won't give him up." There was a caution to the words, as if even in delivering the warning Morgana was entreating Arthur to understand, and in truth he did understand the twisted logic which had led Morgana to this moment, but he didn't condone it. He cursed fate that even as he found his family it was already shattered.

"Mordred's mine, too. Children — people — aren't puppets for you to use."

"Uther certainly thinks they are."

Arthur's stomach tightened. "I'm sorry for what he did to you."

"That apology is not yours to give." She withdrew her hand from his. For a moment she was once again the merciless sorceress who had abducted an innocent child to raise him as her soldier, but then he blinked and the hard image disappeared. "I don't want this fight, Arthur. I didn't ask to be born this way, and the Druids didn't ask to be hunted by Uther and those like him. This is about survival. In a war there are only two sides: the victors and the dead. Let's hope it doesn't come to that."

She disappeared into the darkness.

Arthur closed the door behind her and leaned against it. He prayed he wouldn't regret helping her escape. His father and his sister, opposing forces who would never meet, were trapped by an ancient hatred.

No matter what they might believe, there were more than two sides in whatever battle was to come. There was a third way. Together with Merlin, Arthur would find that third way.

Arthur flew up the stairs back to him. When he arrived, half-fearing what he'd find, the fires were nearly extinguished, and the guards who'd accompanied his father lay strewn about the hall like so many fallen weapons. Only Uther was standing.

"Arthur, I demand to know what you're doing here. This man is dangerous," his father said.

Merlin was sheltering Mordred against the far wall. His eyes shone a fearsome gold and the primitive markings on his face contrasted with the modern weaponry and matching suits of the agents scattered on the floor. He looked as feral as Arthur had ever seen him. He'd allowed Uther to live, and despite all that his father was responsible for, Arthur was grateful.

"He may be dangerous," Arthur said, stepping in front of Merlin while his father looked on in horror. "But the only person here who's a threat to me is you."

"That's ridiculous. What lies have these barbarians been telling you?"

Arthur recoiled at his father's words. Even now, Uther would play him for a fool and heap insults upon those he held most dear. "You trapped me in a scandal. You exiled me from London. But that's nothing compared to what you've done to our family."

"And what proof do you have of these allegations?"

"I need none other than my own eyes, but you've left a paper trail impossible to cover up, with orders signed by your own hand. Leon told me everything. You orchestrated the entire thing."

Uther paled. He looked flustered for a moment but then his face hardened with resolution. "I'm sorry, Arthur, but I only ever had your best interests at heart. I'm not responsible for the scandal. I agreed with my colleagues, yes, that you were getting out of control, and that we had to do something to take you out of the public eye until you were seasoned enough to understand the stakes. I was certain you'd come round. But my assistants took liberties I'd never dreamed they would've — I'd never have sabotaged your career. Sending you to Ealdor was the only option I had after that. I hoped that there your reputation would recover and you'd see for yourself the kind of," he waved at Merlin in disgust, "animals you were sacrificing everything for."

"And Morgana? Mordred? Do you deny that too?"

His father stiffened. "That I will never apologise for."

"You should leave."

"Arthur—"

"Please. I belong to them now. I don't want to hurt you, but if you come one step nearer, so help me, father, I'll do whatever it takes to protect them." Arthur shifted back until he felt once again the reassuring warmth of Merlin's body, strengthening his resolve, and he held out his hand. Merlin took it.

His father's eyes glanced down to their linked hands and flinched. "You've grown worse. I don't know what it'll take for you to come to your senses. These people will take control of our entire country if we don't stand firm. Someday you'll understand why I've made the choices I have, and when you do, I hope it won't be too late."

"Leave."

His father opened his mouth as if he might protest, but closed it again and shook his head. "You're making a mistake. When you realise just how serious, I'll be waiting for you."

"Then you'll wait forever," Arthur said.

Uther didn't protest further, and Arthur followed him outside, stepping over an agent's body on the ground as he went. Uther paused at the side of a small black car, but he never looked back. Then he lowered himself inside and and drove away.

The pressure in the air eased when his car finally disappeared from sight, and Arthur released the tension he didn't even know he was holding. Standing outside in front of the house where he'd passed so many happy times as a child, he felt more alone than ever, but at the same time, strangely, found.

"Why do you think he was here?" Merlin asked behind him. He put his hand on Arthur's shoulder, and Arthur turned into his embrace. He buried his face in Merlin's neck and let his hair be stroked. A few feet away, Mordred explored the old broken stones of the house's foundation.

"Dunno," he said after a few minutes. He righted himself. "But he knew Morgana lived here. I can only guess he came for her."

"What would he have done if he'd found her alone?"

"I think the real question is, what would Morgana have done if we hadn't been here to stop her? I don't think he has any idea how powerful she is."

"No." Merlin looked exhausted. The fatigue from the battle had caught up with him, and he was, Arthur realised suddenly, barely able to stand up. He remembered how magic drained Merlin of strength, and he blamed himself for what Merlin was suffering.

"Hey, I'm sorry about all this."

Merlin laughed. "You kidding? It's my destiny to clean up your messes."

"That's not funny. Or true," Arthur said with a grin. It was a relief to see Merlin smile. He dragged Merlin to him by the strings of his hoodie and sucked his lip into a kiss. It felt so bloody right.

"Mm. I could get used to that."

Arthur was glad to oblige, but it seemed the world wouldn't stop for his pleasure. "Damn. My mobile."

Leon. It was with reluctance that Arthur released Merlin, but he held on to the waistband of his jeans.

"Arthur! Glad I caught you. There's a lot going on."

"Tell me about it."

"I found the perfect story to expose the anti-Druid movement for what it is. There's a student, Gwen, whose father was disappeared and executed without a public trial. Treason, allegedly. He's not the first, but this one was a miscalculation — there's not even a whiff of magic or Druid history with either of them." Leon paused. "I think they were framed. She's looking for an audience, and I'm going to give it to her. Doesn't hurt that she's beautiful. The people are going to love her."

"That's great news."

"That's not all. Word of the Druid roundup is spreading through London. There's a crowd gathered outside the House of Commons as we speak. They're demanding an end to it. There've been arrests already, and plenty of stone throwing from both sides. I'm afraid it's going to get worse before it gets better. Arthur, they're asking for you."

"Me? But they drove me out of there with pitchforks."

"They did no such thing. Your father and his cronies did that themselves. You should come back."

"Let's say I was interested." Arthur pulled Merlin in and held him around the waist. "How would I manage it?"

"Well, for one, we need to get your side of the story out there. Help the people sympathise with what you've gone through."

For the first time Arthur was grateful for his father's insistence he write a memoir. Even if he was on the wrong side, Uther was nothing if not a political animal. "No problem. I've almost finished an autobiography."

"That's a start. You'll also need a legal advisor, of course, and some cash. Not your father's people this time. And it wouldn't hurt to have someone on your team who could speak on behalf of the Druids, someone the people would like. Meet anyone like that in Ealdor?"

Gwaine may have been a rogue, but he understood the Druids and was great with a crowd. As for a legal advisor and financial backing...Arthur pulled from his pocket the business card Gwaine's friend had given him.

_Percival Knightley, Albion Enterprises, Assistant Director._

Elyan's name and number were scrawled hastily in the corner. Arthur grinned. "I think I know a few blokes who might be able to help."

"So what now?" Merlin asked when he'd finished his conversation with Leon.

"Things are turning violent. The anti-magic bill, the arrests, there's a backlash coming. It's just the kind of polarisation Morgana could take advantage of if she wanted to. Leon thinks I should go back to London, and he's right. It's where I can do the most good."

"I understand, don't worry. You have to do what you have to do." Merlin nodded in resignation and pulled away. "It was always said, _when Albion's need is greatest_. And I have my part to play, too. I won't let the past repeat itself. This time I'll protect Mordred. He's going to grow into one of the most powerful sorcerers the world has ever known, and someday he'll fight by your side. I'll take good care of him in Ealdor."

"Ealdor? Wait, no." Arthur touched Merlin's face. "I'd want you to... I mean, I won't go to London without you."

Merlin flushed. "I can't hold you back. This is what you were born to do, and as for us… this is more than I'd ever dared hope for anyway."

"Come with me." Now that he'd found Merlin, there was no way he was letting him go.

"But people will talk. It'll hurt your efforts, your being with a Druid. Not to mention a man."

"Don't care, I'm through letting my father pull the strings. Might even be good for the younger people to see me unashamed of who I am. Live what I preach for a change."

"Are you certain?"

"Incredibly anxious for you to say yes, actually. You and Mordred both."

"Then, yes." Merlin stepped into his arms. "I've never wanted anything else."

The setting sun cast the house behind them in an ominous red glow, but after the darkness of night, dawn would surely follow and bring with it the promise of light. Arthur touched his thumb to the corner of Merlin's eye and hoped Merlin's years of pain would be eased at last. There would never be anyone else for Arthur. Their lips came together in a slow kiss, miles away from the frantic passion with which they'd joined in the barn, but just as sweet, and so suddenly familiar.

It was as if Merlin were someone he'd always known, and known well enough for every part of him to be etched into his memory — the tip of Merlin's tongue, the soft sweep of his hair, the pointed press of his hips. Merlin. Just a serving boy, a bumbling annoyance when he'd challenged Arthur outside the castle as no one had ever dared, but who'd become indispensable, the one person Arthur pretended to scorn but couldn't live without. His guardian, his friend, his destiny.

Arthur remembered everything. He remembered it all.


End file.
